God of Pain
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: "He might prevent this end. In his fingertips, he can feel the power swell. Call him. Beckoning for release. He could stop it -stop everything." Instead of going into his brother's custody, Loki picks a different out. After all, the God of Mischief is never without some angle. He still plans on running Midgard - with or without help. Loki/OC. Vaguely a romance.
1. Prologue

He fell.

It doesn't feel like falling; rather, he flew through the polluted city air, hair mercilessly whipping his sharp cheeks, throwing back his cloak and the hem of his tunic. For a moment, he experiences nothing but wind and sky. He'd fallen back-first, head facing the expanse of clouds. The once-crisp blueness is currently marred with harsh black smoke.

It was curious that every element might be affected by his wrath-the air, the sky, besides the land. He wonders how the harbors of the city faired.

He might prevent this end. In his fingertips, he can feel the power swell. Call him. Beckoning for release. He could stop it- - -stop everything.

But no.

He is angry. He is tired. And, most importantly, he is wounded. Loki winces as the realization crosses his mind. His very core aches.

Eyes closed, the godling focuses his crackling energy. _"Away," _he whispers. The energies surge, spreading far and wide in search of a place. Loki tells them not where he sought, or where _"away" _could be. Only that it was not New York. Not Asgard. Not _here._

There is a flash. He smells pine and wood and dark, damp earth. _"A forest?" _His skin pricks with wetness. Rain. Ever-clean rain. Something welcoming. It did not rain much, in Asgard. Rain was one feature he could like about Earth.

His back makes contact with the very solid ground. The _"thud" _resounds through his hollow chest. Ache fills his sense.

An unexpected element rises in the midst of the rain and the hurt. There is a scream. Shrill and loud, distant. It breaks his fading consciousness briefly. And then, Loki Lafeyson knows no more.

**-XXX-**

**Few quick things to note:**

**This is my first Avengers Fict. **

**I wrote this prior to seeing Thor, which makes the whole jumping/falling scenario amusing to me, as I feel as though I made a decent character analysis with that point. **

**This will feature an OC. I feel like the queen of them, but I really can't help it when I'm so in love with a character, yet they've not been paired off, and I really want to write them…**

**It's really tough for me to write without the movie on hand. I'm living off of Thor and clips on youtube. Excuse any discrepancies, please. I research as much as I can. **

**DISCLAIMER: Avengers, Thor, etc. do not belong to be, they are Marvel property. **


	2. Dancing in the Dark

**God of Pain, chapter 2**

**This title has been inspired by the song King of Pain. It just seemed to fit. **

It has been a seriously long day. In between the city being destroyed around me on my day trip to New York, and pulling double shifts at the gallery once I returned, my stress level has been unbelievable. Charlene sent me to New York today, stuffing me on the match-box sized plane around six this morning, just in time for the flaying the city received at about ten this morning at the hands of aliens and the Avengers. Christie's hadn't been much of a shelter against the downpour of aliens, concrete and smoke, but it was better than what most people had.

When I called Charlene (thankfully the cell towers had remained) to inform her of the reign of terror, she brusquely informed me that she was watching on her office HD. "Did you get the Turner sketch?"

Of course my anal boss would care more about the damn J.M.W. Turner sketch than my well-being.

"Well, no. The auction was actually cancelled-" I don't say "_For obvious reasons," _though it was on the tip of my tongue."-so I'll have to come back next week."

Charlene cursed colourfully. Paying two times the airfare for one auction was a pain in the ass, even I could agree to that. But at the time, by own ass was the only one I had much concern about.

"Am I going to be able to get out tonight?" I asked. I had the gallery credit card, so if need be I could find myself a hotel and order in some room service. But, that was if any hotels were still standing after the alien wrath going on outside of the Christie's safe I was currently tucked into.

"How should I know?" Charlene shrugged (meaning, I could practically hear her shrugging). "They've said the airports are closed for the moment. If not, we'll get you a flight out tomorrow. Or whenever."

"I need to get home. Winchester needs feeding," I reminded her of my iron-coloured cat. "And I have a shift today when I get back."

"Right! Well, they say Vengeance is winning. We'll know soon, Tati."

She kept saying "_we'll,_" as though anyone besides her would be watching the news. Not if she was at the gallery. As curator for the collection, my boss was a real tight ass when it came to focus on work. I highly doubted anyone else was in her office, watching the CNN newsfeed on the disaster that was New York today.

"Avengers," I corrected. She knew that. I mean, it wasn't as though Tony Stark was the gallery's main benefactor. Heck, Pepper had been in just last week to look at our 8th century jade pieces from Beijing that she'd donated two years ago. According to Ms. Potts, they just clashed with Tony's taste in interior décor.

As it turned out, I could go home that evening-most of the damage had been away from the major airports, but just-in-case, most flights were transferred to New Jersey Ports. I was home by five. And by home, I was in the gallery for the six-to-nine shift, then there until about one for the evening gala-our annual benefit for the gallery, in which we smooze with the rich benefactors while enduring formal wear and answer questions about gallery pieces, and leading private tours. Needless to say, neither Tony nor Pepper were present. I usually had the privilege of escorting them through our bright halls, which was genuinely fun. They're entertaining, honestly.

Two in the morning, and I had decided a walk is just what I needed. Winchester could wait another hour or so as I got some fresh air.

So, here I am in the early hours of the day, wandering around outside in my formal. It's a scarlet halter, empire-waisted, and a far cry from the slinky gray thing my best friend Portia suggested when we hit the mall up last week. I'm not a slinky person-I've got meat on my bones, probably more than I need. Fitted is okay on me, but tight is just gross on my figure. I do need some drape.

Weird as it may be to wander the woods behind one's home in a cocktail dress and stilettos, I couldn't resisted. The vault I spend most of the morning in was claustrophobic, horridly small. All I need right now is space and air and trees.

My cottage of a house is tucked away in the more rural part of our sprawling mid-sized city. A forest lines the back of my yard, and my property line extends into the woody depths. There is a walking path- - -there long before I moved in- - -that I often utilize. Such as now.

It's drizzling lightly. Nothing I can't handle in heels, but I still pull them off and carry them slinging from one hand along with my satin-and-sequence clutch. The path is covered in a coat of soft browning needles. I have tough soles, anyways, built up over summers spent at the lake with my parents.

I'm only five minutes into my walk, almost to the clearing at the center of the wood, when it comes.

A soaring sort of noise breaks the night's dull cricket-and-wind routine. I glance back and up, expecting to see…something. But I find only dark. The sound stops abruptly, and is followed by a flash.

It is centered in the clearing ahead. A single flare of brightness in the night. Sort of greenish-white. Sci-fi scary.

Without thinking, I scream. I fly forward toward the clearing, the center of the circle of trees. A gasp waits in the back of my throat as I crash through the treeline, eyes frantic.

By now the light has faded and the rain has picked up. Even so, I can make out a dark sort of lump almost dead center. A distinctly human-sized lump. The gasp surfaces, and I scoop up my skirts to run. Upon reaching the figure, I kneel hurriedly by their side. Instantly, I reach for the neck, my fingers desperate to find a pulse. The skin is cool, inhumanely so. A strong scent of smoke and sweat greet my nostrils. A burn victim? I can't know. I just keep searching for a pulse point.

_"Please, please don't be dead…Oh, God, don't be dead. I've already had such a shitty day…don't let there be a dead guy in my backyard…."_

Finally, I find one. A steady, faint beat.

"Hello?" I ask frantically. "Can you hear me….hello?"

Nothing.

Fumbling for my clutch, I pull forth my cell phone, tapping the center button for a source of light. The blue-digital screen flares to life, casting a pale glow upon the scene. It's just enough to show me the profile of the fall figure. A man I can only describe as willow, with sharp features and inky hair. His head is slung to the side, long white neck twisted. From what I can see he is uninjured. No blood or bruises. However, I can find one remarkable features- - - his wardrobe selection. It's something straight out of a Renaissance faire-leather and boots and cloak and tunics. All very fantastical.

I try again to rouse him, but no signs of life present themselves. By now it's raining quite hard. I got to my phone, dialing in the three number that might, hopefully, save his life, if it needs saving. Nothing looks to be wrong with him. I mean, his pulse is a little faint, but that might just be the cold. Better safe than sorry.

The line in answered immediately. I tell the person at the other end that I need an ambulance. That I was out for a midnight walk and came across a collapsed man in the woods. No I.D. No other people. He couldn't be woken.

I decidedly don't mention the weird light or the clothes.

The EMTs come within ten minutes. All the while, I sit in the rain, holding the guy's hand. I mean, I'd want the same if I'd been dumped in the woods, and possibly was sick. "_All alone…."_ A hundred thousand questions echo through my head, but I don't reason through anything. It would just make me dizzy. Maybe when this guy wakes he could explain all of this weird crap to me.

Maybe I'm just going made after an exceptionally stressful day and more than a few drinks at the gallery gala?

The EMTs make a few humored remarks in regards to my attire, but they shut up completely upon seeing the guy I'd found. I mean, what could they say? Even I'd just been able to think "w_hat the hell?" _And I'm known as the queen of snotty comebacks around the gallery.

Without a question, I'm allowed to ride in the back, sitting next to the guy on the stretcher. The EMTs haven't said whether he's got a concussion or not, only that he's not in good shape and they need to look for internal damage ASAP. So I sit on the stiff metal bench thing-y they've got in the back for such occasions, for the thirty minutes it takes to get to the hospital, clutching this dude's pale hands while I prayed to whatever gods there may be that he makes the ride.

This day has already been shitty enough with me discovering the almost-dead guy in my yard.

**-XXX-**

**I felt like she needed some connection to the Avengers, even a vague one. Thoughts? **


	3. John Doe

**I'm liking this cover thing. Kudos to for all the improvements they've taken on recently. If I could, I'd write them all a very nice card of thanks. Some of this stuff is cool. **

**Anyways...**

**I've been watching Tom Hiddleston interviews lately, along with Avenger clips, and tonight I'm going to rewatch Thor. I feel like there are elements of the character I've just not felt out yet. **

**-XXX-**

Seven broken ribs. A series of nasty bruising along his temple, chest, calves, and left hip. No damaged organs, no stitches. There is no discernible head trauma. But nevertheless he doesn't wake.

For three weeks and two days, he stays under observation in a small section of the ICU ward. He's alone, and because the hospital isn't incredibly packed, in his own room. It's a barren place, with stark grey-blue walls, white sheets, windowless. There is a chair that I often occupy.

The doctors call it a coma.

They say he might be able to hear and feel things. So I read to him, sometimes, or just stop by to "talk." My responsibilities to him probably should've ended when I called 911, or even after I rode with him to the hospital. But I can't shake it out of my head that he _needs _someone.

No one has come looking for him, and though I and the nurses have searched all of the missing persons records within a five-hundred mile radius (not an easy task, let me tell you), we've found no link. He didn't carry any kind of I.D. None of the Renaissance festivals are going on this time of year, so that was a dead end. His clothes don't even have brand or size tags in them- - -after all, a lot of this medieval getup is custom made - - -so we're at a loss there. We haven't even had traces of leads since the search began. The sheriff's office had been doing their best, contacting other counties, even states. But we've had nothing. It's as if he fell from the sky. Which, in a way, he had.

He is alone.

Except for me. I find that reading to him is rather relaxing. He never responds, never gets tired of me. It makes me feel wanted, honestly, which is a little selfish. But aside from Winchester, he'd all I've got going right now. Almost every day I stop by for an hour or so, longer if it's a slow day. Once or twice, I've even slept over, accidentally in the armchair. I always wake with rumpled clothes and a scratchy hospital-issued blanket over me, a result of the staff nurse's fondness for me. They all cluck over my sweet nature and kindness. But I don't think of it as kindness. I know my motivations.

In three weeks, we've gone over almost all the Hans Christian Anderson I own, Grimm's Fairy Tales, several volumes of poetry, a book of famous speeches, _Anthem, Love's Labors Lost, _a few Mark Twain short stories, some Edger Allen Poe, and now we're on _Hamlet. _I don't know this guy's taste in lit, but I've decided it's best if he is well-rounded. A bit of everything.

Then comes the day when his monitors start going crazy. I am in the midst of Ophelia's mad rant about rosemary and rue when the CT scanner starts beeping like mad. Holcomb, the nightshift nurse, burst into the room with the noise. She goes straight to John Doe's side.

"What happened?" she demands, unusually brusque for a normally soft-spoken woman.

"Uh, that CT thing beeped…."

She crossed to the machine. After several seconds, she rounds on me. "Did he sit up? Open his eyes?"

"Oh, no." I frown. "At least, I don't think so. I was sort of into the book-"

"According to this, his brain activity increased threefold. That's near consciousness. Are you sure you didn't see anything?"

I swear, cross-my-heart-hope-to-die, that I noticed nothing unusual. Satisfied, Holcomb returns to her desk, and I go back to reading. I leave early, though, anticipating a long day at the gallery.

**-XXX-**

The next day, before entering John Doe's room, I am pulled aside by Joseph. Joseph, or Dr. Walker as I have been insisted _not_ to call him, is John's primary physician. We've seen each other a lot over the course of the last month. He's often in there with a nurse moving John's limbs to ensure circulation. Also, he's offered multiple times to take me out to coffee at the hospital's in-house Starbucks. His shift ends about the time I leave the coma patient's room. I've yet to take him up on that offer.

"His brain activity spiked again last night right after you left," Walker says, brow intense. He's all about intense, this one. "We think he might be waking up."

"Oh." I blink. "And what does that mean?"

"It means," Walker says. "That you might get your wish. If he passes his psych eval."

After about a week of visiting John Doe, and a week of nothing turning up on who he might be, I petitioned Walker that I might take responsibility if he, John Doe, ever woke up. Meaning, he'd come home with me, and stay until he could get back on his feet. That is, if he wasn't deranged or knew who he was and where he belonged. But I had a keen sense that neither was a possibility.

Walker had reluctantly agreed. After all, if the psych evaluation was passed, it didn't matter to the hospital where the coma patient went. Just so long as he was gone.

"You don't owe anything to this guy, Tati," Walker went on. "You know that right? I mean, yeah, he was found in your yard, but you've already done so much for him."

I shrug. Walker doesn't understand. He hasn't from the day I approached him with my offer. "Even so. I feel responsible. I mean, he'd got nobody. At least, nobody willing to try to find him."

"Maybe with good reason." Joseph's eyes grow dark. "Maybe he doesn't need finding."

"Maybe. But still."

Joseph just shakes his head. "Tati, you don't have to do this."

I know. Oh, I know.

**-XXX-**

Through it all, he's been aware. Perfectly aware. From the ride to the medical institution, to the prods and pokes of eager interns, his run through the CAT (though it in no way resembles one of the finicky creatures) machine, Loki has heard and felt and, on occasion, seen all.

Such as right now, outside of his room, where he lounges against the wall opposite the doctor and the reader as they quietly argue.

He has no idea what cause the doctor has in preventing the woman from taking him, Loki, into her home. Motivation is irrelevant, truth be told, yet the god wouldn't mind to know. He suspects genuine concern aimed toward the woman-who is more of a girl, really, probably no older than twenty-five-paired with some misplaced jealous. Walker clearly has an attraction to the reader. And with good cause. She's reasonably pretty. Not enough to tempt _him, _not quite, but pretty nonetheless. Dark hair that's almost black, what he would assume flashes bronze in daylight, falls to vanilla-scented shoulders. Her form is wanting-soft, but trim enough. Then there are the eyes, nearly gold, really the colour of autumn. Her nose is pert, complexion the colour of diluted honey. Creamy, and warm. He could imagine it flushing pink with embarrassment. She's got a very clean look to her, sharp and crisp as apple pie.

It's her that is a source of curiosity. After several days, it dawned on the god that this was the very creature who'd found him after his very great fall.

He appreciated her visits and her stories. If anything, they broke the long prison of silence that formed his days. Some of them even taught him of the Midgardian cultures. He knew some from his schooling as a child, but these were all new to him, and colourful tales. Over time, he grew to also appreciate the sound of little reader's voice. It was low and soft, keen, and filled with scathing humor at times, fast for the long lines of Shakespearian prose, witty. Her voice filled him for hours, echoing in his mind. His little reader- - - -for he thought of her as _his. _He owned little else in this world. Now that he was waking, it was time to start claiming things. Beginning with the reader.

Tatiana. Called Tati by nearly all those around her. Well, that would soon be fixed.

She wished to take him into her home. He had no objections. It would be fitting, that his first new possession after his fall, into his new life, should so willingly open to him. His first human.

As he was not dead yet, Loki assumed the Avengers had given up on him and assumed that the Asgardian godling was deceased. Well, all the better for him. Though no plans were in motion yet, his mind stayed awake with tender musings, elaborate schemes dwelling even as he slept through his injury.

According to the Midgardian doctors, his wounds were mending nicely, at a rapid pace. Loki supposed this to be the last vestiges of his magic. Working for him, knitting bone and tissue. He had just enough left for small things-such as eavesdropping on the reader and the doctor. Being cut off from Asgard had damaged his stock quite a bit. As soon as he was awake, he would replenish himself- - -somehow. There might be some fairy spring, or some other such place nearby where he might absorb some form of power. As for now, he had enough to get by.

"How long are you going to let him stay with you?"

The doctor is still apparently attempting to dissuade his reader from taking in Loki. But she resists, shaking her head. Dark tresses follow suit.

"As long as he needs. He's been through a lot."

"We don't know that," the doctor points out.

His reader frowns. "He came in with seven broken ribs and a shittton of bruises. I don't know about you, but that seems like a lot to me. Besides, we don't know how he even got them."

"Exactly," the doctor murmurs forbiddingly. "We don't."

"Unless you've developed some kind of third eye for seeing into such matters, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt," she says quietly. "Someone ought to."

The doctor half-smiles. "That's your problem, you know. You're too compassionate."

"No such thing."

But Loki saw and, to some extent, agreed. Her princess-tender heart was a liability. If manipulated by the wrong sort of person, she was bound of injury and unnecessary sacrifice. Luckily, the god of mischief was just the _right _sort of person.

**-XXX-**

I'm approaching the finale, the duel between Laertes and Prince Hamlet, when the CT goes off briefly. This time, no one comes. It's eight p.m. As Walker explained it to me, it'll go on and off over the next couple days as John Doe pulls himself out of wherever he's been back into the world of the living.

Hesitant, I set down my book, dog-earring one page. The shrill sound of the CT scanner has faded, but the rise and fall of the narrow chest catches my eye. I stand slowly, crossing to the beside of our John Doe.

In my three weeks by his bed, it hasn't escaped my notice that he is an exceptionally handsome fellow. Maybe not bronze and buff, or even classically handsome, but there is something sharp and clever in his slim face and angular features that screams intense beauty. I have no doubt his eyes burn just as brightly- - -if they were opened. Shoulder-length locks of night stand out against the bland grey-white of the pillows, and his skin seems to glow even under the florescent light that are standard to every inch of the hospital setting. He is, to put it simply, beautiful.

So beautiful, I can't imagine anyone just leaving him.

When I reach for his hand, the CT goes off again. I ignore it. But when I go to touch his cold stone face with my other hand, the machine screams. Screams, as if it is a dying rabbit. I jump back, turning to the damned thing, frantic. I glance back to the bed just in time to see the flicker of white eyelids.

Two green eyes come to life before me, glimmering from across the tiny room, and my cries for help simply aren't enough to break the gaze.

**-XXX-**

**Quick note: ****I will be leaving town tomorrow night, and therefore away from computer access until maybe Thurs night or Friday day. I'm going to post at least once or twice more before leaving, but an update might be a while coming. **

**My "To Wish" readers are probably sick about hearing Shakespeare references. Sorry guys! **

**Questions? Comments? Concerns/Critiques? I take 'em all, and will respond in a timely fashion! All you have to do is click that button and type a couple of words.**

**Seriously, though, reviews would be great. **


	4. Arise and Awake

**There have been readers according to my stats. I would really appreciate some feedback, guys. This is my first Avengers piece, so thoughts would be lovely! **

**-XXX-**

The nurses come after far too long. They check his vitals, coo and cluck and sooth. But he doesn't need an ounce of soothing- - - our John Doe only has eyes for me.

He doesn't appear frightened or confused, or even mildly worried. In fact, he's a blank slate, contrasting nicely to my raw emotion. I'd just seen a man wake from the sleep of death. He looks perfectly fine, certainly healthier than he'd been in the coma. He hasn't spoken yet, but has accepted the various tubes and patches the nurses have either removed or applied. I sit back in my chair (slightly surprised no one has asked me to leave yet), observing all of this as he observes me.

It strikes me that no one has yet asked him the important questions. Such as, _"Who are you? Do you know where you are? How did you acquire these injuries?" _But no one thinks to ask.

But maybe they know better than I. Someone thinks to call Walker. Another leaves to order some mild foodstuff. When the room is emptied, we're left with one another.

Neither of us speak, but stare for a full two or three minutes. It's nearly a battle of wills, with the first to speak being the loser. Finally, I break the silence.

"How do you feel?"

It seems like a natural thing to ask. But he quirks his lips, smirking, before saying in a low voice, "Fine, thank you."

No croak. No rough, sandpaper-y voice. It's unnatural. I try again.

"Um, do you know where you are?"

"Not a clue," he says smoothly. The whisper of a voice sets me on edge. I decide not to respond.

"What is your name?" he asks, bright eyes sliding over me as though I am a butterfly under glass.

I find myself answering without thought. "Tatiana. Deror."

Instantly, I curse myself. For whatever cause, now awake, the John Doe is unsettling me.

"Tatiana Deror," he says slowly, as though tasting the words. "I suppose I should thank you. Your literary expertise saved me from many a dull evening. And…for finding me, too, I suppose."

"You remember," I breathe.

"Very much. And I thank you." He inclines his head, slight smile pricking his lips.

"It's nothing. I just thought maybe you would…would need some company." I dismiss his gratefulness to ask. "And your name…?"

He visibly winces. "Luke. Luke Laufeyson."

I tilt my head. It's a different name, but not totally unusual. Almost French, to my ears. "Are you from around here?"

He chuckled. This sounded appropriate-strained and harsh. "No. I should think not."

I am left unsure. I do not wish to tire him (which sounds impossible, considering he's spent the last month virtually asleep). But I also don't want to leave him entirely alone. Considering he's just woken up, that would be…cruel.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "Is there someone I can reach…call for you? Family? Friends? A girlfriend."

Again he laughs, just a rough, but more bitter this time. "No. There is no one you can call."

All the more reason to stay. I sink further into the armchair, biting my lip. This entire situation is awkward. Nothing like I'd imagined it to be-then again, I hadn't spent much time dwelling on when my coma patient was going to wake up. His silent, sleeping form had become a fixture in my life, a small constant that needed me and that I needed, much like my cat. While he was unconscious, he could be anyone; a lover of Shakespeare and coffee. But awake now, I am afraid of not liking him. And then what? I like him in my life. Just not as Luke Lafeyson.

"I'm sorry," I say again honestly (though what I'm sorry about I've not the slightest clue).

He looks unperturbed. "Nothing you can help."

It isn't. But everyone should have family around them in a time of need.

"Do you…remember anything? I mean, where you're from, and-and stuff like that?"

Impassive expression, he nods. "Yes. I remember."

That's about when Holcomb appears again. Agitated, she insists that I leave. Lafeyson protests lightly, but Holcomb appeases him by promising (without my input) that I'll be back in the morning. Right now, the doctor was coming in on call to see him. I snag my worn copy of _Hamlet _off the bedside table and make to go, but not before looking back.

Those intense green-glass eyes have followed me, and stay on my form as I exit the room. I can still feel them on me while trudging down the hall to the elevator. It's unnerving.

I can't be back in the morning. I'm expected at the gallery at nine, and there is no reasoning with Charlene. It's move-in day for at least ten new pieces, part of our summer American Watercolours collection. There is no way around it. But, I comfort myself with the thought that Luke will be so busy with tests and psyc evals that he won't have time to miss me.

**-XXX-**

As it turns out, I'm entirely wrong. By the time I manage to arrive at the hospital (three p.m., approximately), Luke has woken from his noontime nap. Arms crossed, one brow raised, he's waited for me.

"You didn't come," he says, and it sounds like a heavy-handed accusation.

"I never said I would."

It's a fair point, but he doesn't like it either way. "I required you."

"Um…" I've not the slightest clue how to respond, so I stand in the middle of the room, rooted to the spot. "…okay."

Impatient, Luke beckons me to him. I approach, wary. I've long decided to not apologize. He makes me feel…challenged. Defensive. And when you're on the defense, apologies are weakness.

"Where have you been?"

I blink. Who is he, my mother? I've already got one of those whose just over-protective enough for me, thanks. And I have already moved halfway across the country to avoid her.

"I had work," I tell him, frowning. "And besides, visiting hours don't start till, like, ten. I had work at nine."

"Nine-thirty," he corrects. And then he smiled. "I apologize. I did not realize. I simply was…concerned."

I scoff, while secretly a little pleased. "Please, you're not the one who needs to worry. What did they do today? Figure out anything?"

The best approach is to be casual. Natural. Easy-going. While some might remain in distant formalities, I've decided this situation requires some ease to avoid the almost-certain awkwardness. Better we begin as something like friends. He watches me carefully, calculating my tone before he answers lightly. With this he reminds me of a fox. We had many around my home when I was a kid. They're fierce, wary creatures. Much like this creature, examining me.

"Some fellow came in for a chat…doctor of psychology…But that is all."

"You got your psych eval?" I sink into my usual chair. "How did that go?"

**-XXX-**

The doctor was a balding man, short and smiley. Loki instantly disliked him. Being a liar himself, he knows that those who smile so often usually have much to hide. It was a standard for himself, as he himself has employed the light smile around the Asgardian court to conceal his emotions. Typically, these feelings could be summed up under a few categories-rage, scheming, or inappropriate glee.

Dr. Philips settled in the chair beside Loki's bed-the reader's chair-and began his evaluation with a few simple questions. Name, age, etc. How was he feeling? Did he want to talk about his emotions? It was when he called the god of mischief "son," that Loki decided the charade had gone on long enough. He dropped all pretenses. And he let himself be known.

"You will recognize me as your king," he snarled. " You will record me as sane and reasonable-for I am. You will tell your people that I am righted, I have passed your test. And, you will allow Deror to take me into her home. You will _welcome _me, and insist that others do the same."

Since the man was weaker-willed, he was swayed quickly. Loki was recognized as his lord and king. The paperwork couldn't be helped. But it's results were sure, certain; the god would be leaving soon.

When it came to Deror, however, the man was resistant. After backtracking, the god decided for himself to be recommended to the reader would be a wise move. Yet Philips resisted. His thoughts dwelled on Tatiana - - -Loki could sense them, practically envision the woman through the doctor's mind- - - but he tried to shake her off. Protective. Philips was protective of the young woman.

Power surged at the god's hand. Admirable, but he needed the reader to _like _him.

**-XXX-**

"As well as could be expected."

Tatiana nods. She's considering. "Did they say anything…about you getting out?"

"Yes. It's a certainty. Tomorrow, at the latest. I'm to be under observation." Not something he wants to do, but he cannot afford to bypass too many necessary things. He doesn't want to attract attention. Not yet, anyways.

Tatiana appears crossed between pleased and worry. "Already?"

"Yes," he spread his hands, smiling slightly. "Already. Wonderful, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said quickly, echoing him. "But…what about…where will you go?"

This must be treated with care. It would mean the most. He wasn't willing enchant her, magically influence her mind. Something of a challenge, he's decided to win her over for as long as he can without using his limited stock of power. It would be quite tiring, besides, if they were to be living together. The long spent in her presence, the more the enchantment would wear, and the quicker he'd have to reinstall his charms.

Delicately, the god says, "I don't know."

She bit her lip. Hesitant, Tatiana speaks slowly. "I was thinking…I mean, I've already talked to Walker about it…if you need someplace…" She picks up speed. "I-I mean, you could crash at my place. I've got a guest room, so you wouldn't have to sleep on the couch, or something, and, I dunno, I just thought maybe-"

She is babbling. He quickly finds it annoying. Loki could wave his hand, stop her stuttering speech, but he simply waits, staring. Truth be told, it amuses him slightly. Tatiana stops abruptly, colouring.

"I accept," he says smoothly.

Something like relief gathers on her features. "Oh. Okay."

And that was that.

**-XXX-**

That evening, Dr. Philips calls me at home. He wants to talk about Mr. Laufeyson's transition into my home. His voice sound oddly strangled. The conversation is brief, ending on Philips enthusiastically ranting on what a good patient Luke is, how he'd polite, and all of this other crap I feel is entirely irrelevant to the conversation. I thank him quickly, then hang up and head for bed.

Upstairs, pulling the duvet around me, I stare out the window, into the starry night beyond. Win has taken up residency beside my shoulder, a smooth grey ball of cat, purring loudly.

Is this a mistake? Can I balance a houseguest with my job, my cat, my attempt at completing a master's degree, and everything else buzzing around my head?

I am a compassionate person; this is not opinion, but fact, universally agreed upon. I'd never claimed as much, but someone stuck the label on my long ago-and then it was something I've never been able to shake off. My heart is princess-tender. More than once I've stopped in the middle of the road to rescue some poor turtle or snake. I buy homeless people quarter-pounders. Many a co-worker has pleaded switching shift with me, and just as many had succeeded. It's just who I am.

But this time…is this the one-too-many? It's a person, not a puppy I'm taking in. A real, live, potentially damaged, _male _person.

And I don't even know why. I just feel compelled by myself, or maybe the universe at large, to help this guy. I don't even think I like him. And yet….

**-XXX-**

**Thoughts? Critiques? Comments? I take 'em all. **


	5. Impression

**I am hoping to finish chapter 9 up today, and wrap up 10 tonight. **

**What do you think so far? In character? **

**Thanks to all my readers and reviewers! You're my fuel. **

**-XXX-**

The second sensation he noticed upon waking was the prickling itch along his jawline. In his sleep, he had grown something of a scruff. The morning Tatiana came to fetch him, he has his first chance to examine himself in a mirror. He's been give an hour or so to clean himself up and dress.

The razor he's offered is pathetic for the task, so he magics off what he doesn't like, saving a neatly groomed ring that expends from his upper lip to his chin. Following this, he clips his hair and then bathes. It's nice to feel normal again. Alive. Even in the beige-tiled shower stall, he experiences a gentle wave of gratefulness.

In his room, he finds a folded pair of loose blue trousers- - _-"Jeans,"_ he thinks- - - and a long-sleeved shirt with buttons. There are dark, lace-up shoes. A narrow belt. Not what he would've selected, but beggars can't be choosers. And magicians can't reveal themselves too early on in the game. He wonders where his clothes have gone, but decides it is no huge loss. They can always be made again.

Once cleaned, the doctor is brought to him.

**-XXX-**

Soon enough, he is discharged. I'm forced to beg Charlene for the day off, so that I can sign my new housemate out of the hospital and move him in. Charlene finds the whole thing very intriguing. Romantic, even, which is weird for my prickly boss. She insisted I take the next two days off. I accept without second thought.

At eight a.m., I find myself in the downstairs lobby of the hospital, awaiting my new charge. Every time the elevator "_dings" _I tense, expecting him. But it's the one time I do look up when he arrives. In, to my surprise, a wheelchair pushed by a harassed-looking Joseph Walker. I meet them across the polished granite tile, shyly stopping before the two men.

Luke appears relaxed. But Joseph is agitated. After dropping Luke off at the counter to complete his several layers of paperwork, I go to him, quietly inquiring after his patient and his own health. Joseph responds shortly.

"He's doing well. Walked a bit today. He didn't want the chair, but it's policy, you know."

I knew. "And you?"

He smiles. "I can't say I'm happy about this."

"He did pass. Philips said he's good. On the mend."

This only seems to increase his aggravation. "I don't know about Philips."

Frowning, I step back to look up at the tall doctor. "What do you mean? You said yourself he's a leader in his field. Credible."

"I know what I said. But he's been…odd lately. Can't stop talking about your guy, you know? Like, he's the greatest thing ever. A rock star, or something."

My brows rise. "He's got a name you know."

"_Luke_, then, has been the topic of many conversations around the nurse's station. He's got all of them charmed, after only a day, but Philips is…almost obsessed. I swear, it's sketchy. They're all acting like he's…he's…."

"What?" I ask, skeptical.

"Like this guy is a god," Walker finally manages, shaking his head.

I laugh; I can't help it. The doctor looks sheepish, but he stands his ground.

"C'mon, Tati. You have to admit he's a little…different. I just don't feel comfortable with you taking this guy home."

Clearly a green-eyed monster has replaced this sweet and bold doctor. I touch his arm gently, grinning. "I got it, Walker. But don't worry. At the first sign of weirdness, I will send him right back to you. Okay? But for now, I've already made the arrangements."

"Seriously, Tati," Joseph urges. "You be careful. Send him to a hotel, or at least lock your bedroom doors."

"He's got nowhere else to go," I say quietly. "What, should I just make him hitchhike to the nearest homeless shelter? I can't do that. You know I can't."

He sighs. "At the very least, I know I've tired. Be _careful."_

"I will," I assure him. "And-" I hesitate. "I never did take you up on that coffee. Would you still be…game?"

His grey eyes glow. "Yes. Yes, I definitely would. Now?"

I laugh. "No, I've sort of got some prior obligations." I jerk my thumb toward Luke. "But…I'd be willing to go sometime later this week. And, maybe we could upgrade from coffee to lunch?"

Joseph grins. "That sound fantastic. Can I call you?"

He already has my number. He'd charmed it out of me ages ago, partially so he could call me whenever Luke woke up.

"Yeah. You can. Totally."

Luke approaches, still in the chair. "It's all done," he says in that ridiculously velvety voice.

"Oh," I say surprised. "Did you need help with any of the insurance stuff."

The green eyes turn on me, wildly amused. I feel as though I'm missing the joke. "Oh yes. It's all been taken care of."

Joseph walks us out, wheeling Luke. We move out to my Volvo. Luke manages to rise from his chair, and seats himself in my front seat (thankfully I'd thought to clear off the massive piles of paperwork and the empty Starbucks cups from the front. Before Joseph returns, I'm passed a garbage bag I hadn't noticed in the under-basket of the wheelchair.

"What's this?"

"Mr. Lafeyson's clothes. The ones he came in with."

I wince with memory at the thought of the medieval getup I'd found Luke in. Luckily, some kind soul had found him a pair of jeans and plaid button-down-somebody's sons, I think. It's why I like that hospital- - -it's small town. But even so, this'll last him a day. We'll need to go shopping soon. I silently thank my gallery for having already enabled me to pay off my student loans. I'm not exactly living paycheck-to-paycheck right now, which makes a huge difference. My car was a gift from Mom and Dad, just over eight years old and still ran well, and my house had low payments as it was so small and on an unpopular side of town. I could afford a small shopping spree.

We leave, driving silently for the fifteen minutes it takes to get to my house. I get the sense that, besides observing the passing city around him, Luke has keep an especially attentive gaze on me. I don't look his way once, keeping my eyes on the road. Dressed in real clothes, not just flimsy hospital nightgowns, his masculine beauty is emphasized nicely. And I'm not blind to it.

Leaving the car, I finally let my gaze slide to my new housemate. Wiry muscles suit his willow form. His hair, a little mussed, has been swept back, slicked against his skull so that the dark layers reach his shoulders. The shirt and jeans hang off of his skinny frame. He's far thinner than I, but built with a certain swell of muscle. His skin lacks a healthy flush, even in the sunlight, but I'm resolved to fix this. I come from a family of "feeders." We're inherently convinced that the best medicine to any problem- - -emotional or physical- - -can be fixed with food. If I wasn't working at the gallery, I would be involved in another type of art, which is to say elbows-deep in dough at any local bakery.

The general idea is that he's handsome. Straight-out handsome. Not classic-movie star, but slyly beautiful. He reminds me of a fae lord from one of the fantasy novels I read in my youth. Sharp. Dangerous. Intelligent.

His eyes glimmer with brilliance. Cleverness oozes out of his every pore. Even though he doesn't speak much, I can feel intellect staring me in the face. But maybe that's just the fairy tales whispering in my head.

He appears very interested in my house. I'm quiet, letting Luke examine the exterior before moving on to the inside.

I've always thought my house to be welcoming. With its warm yellow paint and bright red door, weathered brass fixtures, and chipped white trim, it's always been the apple of my eye. Over the years, I've been blessed with a wild garden, a natural series of plants (along with a selection of domesticated perennials left behind by past owners). It requires little maintenance, thank God, besides the occasional weeding and mowing. Therefore, there is a natural, untainted beauty about the garden that I've always respected.

Right now, the irises are in bloom- - -nearing their end, actually. The result of May's dawn. A collection of periwinkle, burgundy, white, yellow, and purple fan the crumbling brick walkway. Then there is the hostas, the white clover, and the deep green ivy covering most of the untended beds. Luke takes it all in for several minutes before nodding, as though satisfied.

His approval is not what I sought, but I find a wave of pleasure surfacing down my spine as he smiles. It's annoying. I've never thought of myself as a "pleaser," and feel disgusted with myself. I let it pass.

Inside, I feel as though every inch of my life is being examined. Every picture is scanned, every title read, each throw pillow, all surfaces brushed over. I keep a clean home, so there is no embarrassment there-unlike the flowers, attention is paid to the household chores.

He spends a long time looking at my books. As the halls are wide, shelves line one wall of each. There are also shelves in the living room, bedrooms, and the dining room. The only wall space left is covered by family photos, or my prints from the gallery. Most are French impressionist pieces, but occasionally a soft abstract punctures the room with colour.

A jingle breaks the reverie. Winchester bounds in from the kitchen on white-socked feet. He stops in the threshold, taking in the room and our guest. Normally a warm cat, my baby keeps his distance, green-gold eyes on Luke. I cross to pick him up. Win instantly curls in my arms, his tail tickling my skin. I press a kiss into his soft gray downy skull, murmuring. Luke watches us, tense.

"This is Winchester," I tell him. "Or Win. Or Winnie, when he's been bad."

"And is that often?"

I grin. "Yes."

Win is offered forth. Luke allows the cat to sniff him before scratching him behind his ears. Win doesn't appear to mind, but wariness radiates from the cat. I pull him back after several seconds.

For several minutes we're at a loss. I avoid his eyes before saying, "Um. Do you want to see your room?"

Walking up the stairs, I wonder if this is a mistake. Is it normal for a person to take in some random guy they found passed out in their woods?

I find I don't need to vocalize the question to anyone. The mere fact that I've asked it is enough of an answer.

**-XXX-**

**OCs are fun. I know there are the cliches, but when there is no really good shipping option...**

**The cat is modeled after my own Winnie, who is a spoiled brat, and maybe 3 months old. He disappointed me when he didn't turn out with green eyes. But he's since made up for that. **

**Reviews would be lovely. Please? **


	6. Tested to Topple

**As I may have mentioned previously, I'm leaving town, so I thought I'd do two updates. Thurs. and Fri. might not have any new additions, sorry. **

**In this chapter we go back a bit into Thor. Listening to Tom Hiddleston's interviews, there is a very interesting thing he keeps say I just wanted to play with. We also begin to see "Loki" the power prince at his all of his douchebaggary. **

**But just a little.**

**Thanks so much to my regs, K.L. and ber1719. You guys keep me going.**

**-XXX-**

The bedroom is, understandably, smaller than mine. The walls are a cool green. Prints of old botany textbooks cover the walls, along with veined pressed flowers and plants. One Ikea armchair dominates the corner, near the window. The bed is another Ikea find, made of a light wood with shelves for a headboard and a built-in utilitarian lamp. All in all, it's a bare little room, perfect for guests.

He says nothing while I stumble through telling him about the house, explaining my work, Win's temperament, etc. There is only one bathroom, so that'll be an issue. And I don't have any sort of man toiletries- - - shaving gear and whatnot. There are clothes, leftovers from a long-gone ex. But they're not going to fit, at least not well. We'll need to shop soon, probably tonight.

"My room is just down the hall," I tell him. "Across from yours."

Luke nods. He moves to the bed, impassive, sitting down to look out of the window. It's a view of the back yard, the woods where I found him. For several minutes, we gaze together upon the forest. The sun is out; it's a nice day, warm and mild. I hug myself while we watch the horizon.

I leave to make lunch. From the kitchen I can usually hear all activity around the house. Yet all is silent. Win has followed me, and lounges on his windowsill in the breakfast nook. I tease him gently as I was the lettuce. He stretches, eyes half-lidded, unamused with me. It's normal - - -he's an independent little thing. I grin from the sink, going back to my vegetables.

Luke is downstairs almost twenty minutes later. He has removed the shoes, and watches me from impassive eyes. Careful expression in place. I've decided his attitude is one of nobility- - - someone used to having things done for them, someone who feels entitled. I wonder who he is, where he'd from.

When we sit down to eat, I strike up a conversation. "It's funny, the night you came."

"Oh?"

"I was just thinking about all the crazy stuff that was going on, all of the things that happened that day." Upon seeing his expression, I clarify. "All of the aliens, in New York."

He understands. "And then you find a man in the woods."

"Well, not just that." I frown. "Do you remember? The light…the noise?"

Luke doesn't comprehend.

"It was like magic," I say, shifting my fork. "I thought maybe it had something to do with the New York accident."

He smiles slightly. "That I was an alien?"

"Maybe." My lips quirk. "It's not impossible, you know."

"No," he agrees. "It's not. But I can assure you, I'm…one-hundred percent mortal."

"Good to know."

"So…tell me about this….light?"

He bares his teeth. It's nearly a smile, but it strikes me as feral. Inhumane.

So I do, briefly outlining the events of the day and night. Things like the stilettos and the gala are left out, but I mention the New York Incident, and the Avengers. They don't feel necessary to the plot, exactly. But they're cool, interesting little details.

**-XXX-**

As she explains the circumstances under which she found him, Loki felt as though he was the first person she told in regards to the supernatural lights and noises. He is grateful, again, toward her. She is an insightful thing. He will keep her. She's got just the right notes of secrecy, paired delightfully with more human characteristics of openness. _"Trustworthy," _he realizes. That's why the doctor took to her. Why both doctors feel so strongly about her. What made the nurses rave and rant over her. That's why the cat follows her around like a lame pup. She's got an air of trust about her, only equaled by her compassion. They all feel close to her, because that's what she unknowling gives them: a feeling of ease, trustworthiness, compassion.

It could be a weakness, on some fronts. But he needs someone who relates with the people, if he is to rule them. Not an advisor, but, rather someone to observe. To collect data from.

His reader will fit the bill nicely.

To have conversation is a luxury he's not enjoyed for some time, not since his fall from Asgard. And even before then, the godling had been too busy scheming; his few friends fell to the wayside quickly. They were beyond him- - - or perhaps, he was beyond them. Loki, tired of being the younger brother, tired to trying to find a way, any way to surpass Thor, was distracted. He kept face for court, of course, and lightly sprinkled in his usual humor and mischief. But his mind crackled with focus - - -he was not just playing a being a trickster. Plans were being set into motion. He was looking for something that _mattered._ And, in that planning, he lost himself, a little. The god knew it, naturally, saw his progression. At the time he couldn't bring himself to mind. Looking back, Loki acknowledged that there the trouble lie; he'd not found strength in those around him. He was a single god, waging a war of one against a thousand.

He hasn't had a proper sit-down talk since…well, years, maybe. Wars don't allow for socializing, not where you're officer and commander.

Though she's doing most of the talking, he still finds the topic vaguely simulating. Loki sits back, listening lazily as his reader attempts explain his recovery. He knows, of course- - -after all, he was consciously there, even if she doesn't know it.

He likes this casualness. True, he misses the grandeur of Asgard, the marble and stone, the hush of noble voices, the stiff formalities broken by brighter moments behind-the-scenes with his family and friends. Sometimes, he dreams of his home- - -of Asgard. But those dreams were far and few between. For now, he'll immerse himself in the Midgardian lifestyle.

**-XXX-**

"These Avengers…they are soldiers?" His brows furrow slightly with this last word.

"Not really. More like…" I search for a realistic wording, but going straight back to what the major media sources kept spinning out. "Super heroes."

When he laughs, I wince.

"Masked crusaders?" he teases genuinely.

"Kind of. They saved the city, at least. And the world, too. Those, they left a lot in their wake." It was true. When I returned to New York a week later for that Christie's auction (walking away with the Turner, might I add), the Big Apple was a shell of itself. The damage was extensive-hundreds of families now had to rely on churched, FEMA, or other charities for shelter. The government was throwing down a lot to make repairs, but it would take more than new bricks and a few coats of paint to fix what had been broken. Or lost.

But the city was pulling together. Stark Tower stood through it all, now the Avenger's HQ (and personal clubhouse, of sorts). Most of the cafes and shops had boarded up their windows that night, and were open for business the next morning. Such was the New Yorkian way. It sort of made me proud- - - to be an American, yeah, but also to see such strength. I mean, if they could overcome, who couldn't?

Nothing, I told Luke, has really been seen of the Avengers since that day. Aside from Tony Stark, that is. I mean, the guy is everywhere. Tony has been on the news a fair bit, CNN and BBC, telling his (modified) version of events. Everyone knows the government has probably reigned in a good deal of his tale. It's accepted, though, as the nearest thing to the truth.

Luke takes a particular interest in the Avengers, asking questions left and right. One strikes me-had I seen any of them in person, on that day?

"Yeah," I admit. Captain America had graced Christie's long before news of the outbreak had reached up. He shouted for order, then told us to find cover. The proprietor was, thank goodness, a bright man. He stored us, all thirty gallery and private collection flunkies gathered for the ten a.m. auction, in one of the bigger vaults.

"Anyone else?"

"Not really. Once things had cleared out, they were on Stark Tower." I twist my fork. My plate has been long empty, but we've yet to leave the table. Luke is staring at me from over his glass, eyes aglow. Meeting them, I draw back, looking elsewhere. I'm in my own home, yet this quiet man has managed to effectively unsettle me with a few glances.

"If you looked hard you could see Hulk, or something really big and green, at least. And then…" I swallow. "There was someone falling. From the top. The media outlets said it was one of the aliens, but everyone knows better. They were never found, you see. It's a huge government conspiracy."

This appears to amuse him. I don't really see what is funny. Then again, many weird things seem to amuse my new housemate.

"And these Avengers…they are revered?"

It strikes me that his pattern of speech is unique. As someone who frequents Shakespeare, I'd missed it at first. Now, I catch it in every extended vowel. Also, there is a formality in every sentence that simply isn't American. In fact, everything regarding the way Luke talks in sort of odd. He's got an accent, something European and soft. But I can't identify it as something obvious. It's faded, though, hardly recognizable. Dutch, maybe? They picked up the language better than some, I've noticed.

I want to ask, but I answer him first. "For the most part. Some people have gotten fussy over the damaged they've caused to the city-which is understandable on both sides. I mean, people did lose their homes. But at the same time, I would think a few ruined apartments and meat markets might be worth circumventing an alien invasion. But that's just my opinion."

Luke snorts. Even when making sounds like that, he manages to look attractive. "And do you like them? The heroes?"

Why do I hear a sneer?

"I guess," I say softly. "They kind of saved my life."

"Of course," he says dryly. "From the impending doom of aliens."

He makes it sound as though it wasn't a big deal. Like people didn't die, or anything. As though alien's, big, tall, green aliens-with-a-capital-_a_ hadn't been roaming the Manhattan streets. I raise a brow.

"Well, yeah. That's kind of _exactly_ what they did." My voice is fiercer than intended. I realize I'm leaning forward, my figure ridgid.

He sneers. Even with such an ugly expression, he radiates beauty. I don't understand.

It's time to cut the conversation short. I stand, gathering up dishes and carrying them to the sink, putting away various foodstuff. Trying to figure out my new housemate's peculiarities, I slip deep into my own mind, silently and mechanically working through the doings of cleaning up. My face is blank as I turn on the tap. All the while, Luke observes me, his own expression one of frustration. He doesn't offer to help, but it's not as though I notice. Then, anyways.

When I make to go, he issues one solid command. "Stay."

This breaks my focus. I glare without meaning to. "Excuse me?"

"Tatiana, come here."

And I do. Accidentally. Those eyes…suddenly I was at the dining table, rather than the threshold. I blink, unsure of how, exactly, I'd gotten here.

Fire blazes in his grey-hazel gaze. For a long moment, all I can see is green, vivid emerald. Then I find myself in one of my dining set chairs. Not the one I'd sat in earlier, across from him, but right next to Luke, my knees brushing his thigh. I squeak, meaning to push back. Somehow, I am prevented from this action, and my skin continues to skirt his.

Calm overtakes me. Again, green crosses my vision, but this time it has softened. Luke speaks, voice low and light. "I apologize. We've gotten off on the wrong foot here. I am simply very interested in the Avengers…and their developments. Especially considering you've come into contact with one. Ah, but I am not being a good guest!...pushing you so…we'll discuss this later, alright?"

"Later," I agree. My head is fuzzy, along with my vision. It's as if I'm viewing my kitchen/dining room through frosted glass. Luke is the only thing un-blurry. In focus. I shake my head, attempting to dislodge the issue. Nothing alters.

"You'll probably need a nap," Luke advises gently. "Many do, after their first experience." His voice, though foreign, is melodious. Chocolate and wine and music…so lovely. I could spend the rest of my live listening to that voice.

There is a laugh. "Perhaps you shall."

Had I said that aloud? Embarrassed, I flush. He's so handsome and lovely…I must be flustered, or something.

"You think I'm handsome?"

Again? I don't understand, usually I'm so good about thinking before I speak.

"Bed," he says firmly. Slender hands find my elbows, and I'm standing again, drifting from the kitchen to the hall, then the foyer. At the stairs, we stop. I sway, slightly. Vision still fuzzy, my already teetering balance has been impaired greatly, and I think to reach out for the stair's railing. This doesn't happen, however, as I can't seem to move much of my own free will.

One hand on my waist, Luke stares into my eyes. "Go upstairs. Get some sleep. We'll speak more in the morning."

"Okay," I say faintly.

"And this will all be nothing more than a faded memory," he sooths. "Tatiana, when you wake, you'll be just fine."

And, like the sucker I am, I agree.

**-XXX-**

**In case you're wondering, yeah, the guy jumping off Stark Tower is Loki.**

**A few people mentioned Tati's sanity for bringing a total stranger into her home-she's sincerely compassionate to the point of making some really stupid decisions. Besides that, even in a comatose state, the god is exceptionally charming. I mean, who wouldn't want to take him home? **

**Questions? Comments? Concerns? Critiques? I may not be able to answer for a few days, but I'll get back to you. Feedback is always great. I'm up to chapter 10 right now, and will be writing while I'm gone. I'd love to see some reader thoughts. **


	7. Swell

If he didn't know better, he would say the cat scowled at him for the rest of the evening. When it wasn't curled beside its human, the iron-coloured creature crept into whatever room the god was occupying, balling up to stare mercilessly at the man-god. Loki quickly decides he doesn't like the beast. It will go, soon, if she doesn't manage to talk him out of it.

He went against his own vow not to use magic on her. She had surprised him- - - her will was strong. But now, getting her to obey him without the influence of his more supernatural gifts would be difficult- - -like weaning a calf from its sow. Though he'd not used much, really not more than a dash. She took to it, as humans do, falling under his eyes like a lost pup. Well, it wasn't as though there hadn't been a struggle. Her subconscious wasn't ready to relinquish control by any means-odd, as he had often found that the human mind sought domination when he ventured there. Barton certainly had (though that could be attributed to his military-esque background).

Either way, it wouldn't take much to convince her that she would be much, _much _happier under his metaphorical wing.

After their encounter (which proved useless-he had nothing more to ask her, and as it was a mere show of power, he didn't receive anything useful for it) he took pity on his reader and sent her to bed. She'd planned on many things for the coming day- - - shopping, dinner, etc. But it wasn't to be. She needed rest. Though his powers went into her, she was drained. But such was the way with humans.

Tatiana sleeps for the rest of the day, then most of the night. She woke early the next morning to find her housemate awake and alert (unsurprising, as he'd not slept a wink), and bearing coffee. Without a word, she accepts the brew, hot and black. He considers himself forgiven-not the she quite knew for what. Over breakfast, she is shy and distant, while he attempted to charm her over their eggs. But she doesn't want to be charmed.

"Sleep well?" His teeth flashed in the morning sun.

"Well enough. I'm sorry I crashed on you so early…."

"Not at all. You were tired. Stressed. With your work, I sure any sleep is a godsend."

Irony sparks his tone, because he is, in fact, a god.

**-XXX-**

Actually, my job doesn't infer much with my sleep. I don't have to be in until nine or ten most days, and then it's rare that I have to stay past six (saving galas, or other such events). I have the weekends off usually, and Wednesdays for the most part. It's not high-stress, unless I'm being carted off to LA or New York for the latest auction. Which isn't all that often, really.

Luke is eager to please. This morning he is polite, all smiles. He offers to refill my cup more than once, clears off the breakfast dishes, then seals the whole deal by asking me thoughtful questions about my job. Do I like the gallery? Am I an art person?

Can I paint, or draw?

The answer to the last one is a definite "no." In high school I'd picked up a few art classes, but I never had enough skill to be called "artistic." At the time, it hurt, but nowadays I'm thankful. The bohemian lifestyle of so many of my art-minded friends is beyond me. I enjoy owning my own home. And having money.

Before I realize, and hour has passed. "We need to get to the mall," I say suddenly, pulling out my cell. "And find you something to wear."

He's still dressed in the clothes the nurses gave him- - - though, the button-down has been carefully draped over the back of one of my chipped-paint chairs. He's wearing a white v-neck I can vaguely recall stuffing in one of the guest room drawers. It's mine, a Hanes six-pack shirt. Before Luke arrived I'd scoured my closet for some form of men's clothing. I had a tendency to lounge in shirts such as the ones he'd been wearing. And somewhere, I had found a pair of college sweatpants that were sure to fit him.

The shirt makes his pallor almost vanish- - -at least, he doesn't look _as _pale. And the v dips nicely, giving me a peek of his chest, which, if my eyes don't deceive me, is quite nice.

"That would be nice," he agrees.

Thirty minutes later, after I've had a chance to cleanup, we're in my Volvo once again and on the road to the mall. Plugging my Ipod in, Luke winces at the sound of bass and the tones of an electric guitar, but I ignore him. My car, my music. The entire drive, Luke again observes the passing scenery and me, occasionally inquiring after elements of the city around us. I can't answer all of his questions, unfortunately, but I do my best.

Once in the mall, I'm overwhelmed. Malls have always done this to me; I get dizzy and a little non-sensical as time moves on. This perhaps, I realize, isn't the best place to start. But we're here, and Luke needs clothes. Desperately. If we don't dress him soon, he might be disregarded to wearing the bedsheets- - -which won't really be so bad, for me anyways.

We browse several shops. I've not the slightest clue what Luke is into, so we hit up everything from J Crew, H & M, Old Navy, Gap, PacSun, American Eagle, and Banana Republic. American Eagle jeans catch his eye, and we buy three pair. He doesn't like the fussy shirts, though, so we travel down the strip to Express, and then Banana Republic, where we purchase shoes, a few belts, and dress shirts. He has expensive tastes, but I don't break the bank when it comes to dressing him. We leave for the bathrooms, where I wait outside while he changes.

"What do you think?"

I approve of the result. Basic dark-wash jeans that hang well off of his frame, and a crisp grey shirt. He looks uncomfortable in the casualness.

By then it's nearly three. I offer the food court, but Luke takes one look at the crowd and his forehead is marred with wrinkles. I get the message. We find a small café down the street, instead.

Over the entire trip he's been quiet. I swirl my spoon around my soup bread bowl, waiting for him to speak before I strike up.

"You've adapted nicely."

I wait. He nods, but says nothing, eyes on his sandwich. I continue.

"I mean, if I was dumped in the woods, in a coma for a month, then ditched with some lady I didn't know, I'd probably be a little shell shocked."

His lips quirk, but still nothing.

"Do you remember anything? Where you came from, or something like that?"

"I believe I told you I had." His brows rise. I fend off a blush.

"Yeah. You did. But…isn't there something you've left behind? Or family? I find it hard to believe you just collapsed in the woods behind my house without leaving some…life behind you."

"I never said I didn't."

He's looking at me properly now, eyes straight and leveled on my own gaze. I stare right back, raising my chin.

"But why leave it?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

I snort. "And you don't?"

Luke holds his gaze for several more seconds before sighing. "It's not something I particularly want to return to. Even if I wished to…go back…it would be impossible."

Eager, I lean forward. "Why?"

He smiles. "So willing to get rid of me? Already?"

"No. I just had an aversion to keeping mysterious men in my house," I say honestly. "And I'm working to remedy that by making you less mysterious. Does that make sense?"

He nods in assention. "I am estranged," he says finally. "There was…conflict between myself and my father and brother. I attempted to…prove myself. The attempt failed. I was cast out of my home, and have been making my own way in the world since then."

"Oh."

Luke waits gravely, knowing there is more I wish to ask. I bite my lip.

"So, this is a new start for you?"

"In a way." Again, he smiles. "Will you help me, then?"

I'd already signed up for that task almost a month ago. There was no backing down now.

"You're not from like, the mob or anything? No one is going to hunt us down? Gut my cat and leave a message in his blood on my sidewalk?"

To my surprise, Luke laughs. "No, nothing like that."

This makes me laugh. And for a while, that's all we can do. In the grim face of the situation, it was nice to shake off our conflictions with a few chuckles.

**-XXX-**

Somehow, Tatiana accepts his abridged tale without question. She's still suspicious, but less so now that she knows a scrap of his past. He would, if it were possible, tell her of his past, his life as prince. He wants her to reveal and cower in his glory. He wants to taste her fear, not mere apprehension, around him. Loki would see her his, and knowledgeable of his past and power, rather than a distant, warm-cold thing attempting to discern him whilst she thought he wasn't watching.

But there is no use if he doesn't _have _that power.

Before he starts showing himself to her, he needs his energy back. The only problem is he doesn't have the _how _to the equation.

Timing is key in this endeavor. For whatever reason, he still wishes to claim her without magic. She will have him, want to remain as his reader.

He supposes it's a reward, of sorts, for taking him in. He can't start around nothing but bloodshed, anyways. Weed the population down, yes. Take out a few of the wolves among his sheep. But not her.

Loki is no savage. He has compassion past his personal gain. Madness claimed his campaign, and he will be the first to admit it; foolishness lost his siege, not weakness. He didn't separate the Avengers as he ought have. But he knows better, this time.

**-XXX-**

"You can stay with me. I _want _you to stay."

A look passes over Luke's face. Something akin to pleasure. "Thank you."

"Well," I say, embarrassed. I've never liked receiving thank-yous. "It's a little late now, to kick you out, I mean. Win's attached."

"I see." He smirks.

My fib is transparent-from what I've gathered this morning, Win has decided, in that way cats do, that he doesn't like Luke.

"There is a condition," I start. Luke waits. "You've got to be honest with me. I'm not asking for your life story- - I mean, it looks like you're a little hesitant to dish that out. But just tell me what I need to know, okay?"

He considers. "Fair enough."

"Damn straight."

Again, he smiles. This time, I get a sense that it's genuine. A little dark, but brilliant nonetheless. And, I sense that we're going to get along just grandly.

**-XXX-**

When the disgraced Asgardian prince fell from the Bifröst, he felt his heart shred to a thousand million pieces. His home, his crown, his _life_ gone. Earlier, of course, he'd found the truth of his heritage- - -a painful realization. But somehow, this was worse.

Reemerging, he was no longer the younger brother. He was Loki, God of Mischief, soon-to-be ruler of the Earth and her realms. In this new light, he was a different, better man. Not happier…but better. Thor no longer overshadowed him; no one overshadowed Loki. He had found purpose. He was self-possessed. A sorcerer come into his power. In some ways, he'd come into himself. He had become the man he was meant to be. Laufeyson. Not Odinson.

He would be stronger than both of his fathers. He would rule, king and lord and commander over a realm not his own. He would be their champion, shepherd to the sheep that was the human race. They _needed _him. And, perhaps, he needed them a little too.

Earth wasn't like Asgard. Asgard didn't have wars; they waged wars on others, other realms. Under one king, there would be no war.

Loki would be just that king. He was ready for rule.

Thor wasn't. Yet, one day Thor would have Asgard, glory.

And, as always, the younger brother had to make his own glory. Loki would be resigned to a place of advisor, Prince, the rest of his life under his brother.

Others would never see it as bravery, but it took a lot for the prince to let go and fall from the Bifröst. He knew not what he was going into- - - only that it wasn't Asgard. It was not a life as Thor's shadow, the darker younger sibling who found his strength not in muscle, but in wit and supernatural prowess.

That was enough reason to fall.

He'd been delighted to make his deal with Thanos. The entire campaign had been something of a game for him. A perfect exercise as God of Mischief-much better than the petty tasks he was set about around Asgard.

Then, of course, the Avengers had had their say. On top of that tower in the midst of his ruin, Loki again sought the choice to fall.

He was lucky. If anyone less than Tatiana had found him, he doubted he would've healed in such a timely manner. It wasn't the Midgardian doctors, of course. He could've fixed his own ribs and nicks without trouble. The coma was a mere side-effect of his rescue. No, Tati's energies fueled him. Not magic by any means, but just enough.

Loki owes her.

**-XXX-**

**We go back a bit to Thor, here. I mentally need to understand where Loki is coming from, so this last passage is a result of that expercise. **

**So...I've had about 60 consistant readers and 2 reviews. I won't beg, but feedback would be swell. Thanks for reading. **


	8. Face to Face We Fall

The next day, I go back to my routine. I leave Luke in the house with a pile of books. He's taken to one of the armchairs in my living room, absorbing sunlight and cinnamon tea while he browsing my collection. I'm still not sure what, exactly, I'm going to do with him. Is he going to get a job, or something? Today I don't ask, merely tell him stutteringly that I should be back by four. My number is taped next to the phone in the kitchen.

Luke nods, barely glancing up from my DK _Commanders_ book. It had been a father's day gift a long, long time ago. When Dad showed no real interest in it, I'd filched it on one of my visits home from college. War history was of little interest to me, but in my line of work it was good to be well-rounded. Picasso even painted war. It is strong inspiration

Charlene acts as though I've been away months, rather than two days. All morning I'm peppered with question about my new housemate and his habits. I try to remain vague, but my boss has a tendency to pry. When eleven comes, I escape to my usual tour guiding duties, hopefully leaving the topic to rest. I take three groups through before it is time for my lunch break.

"Are you going to bring him by the gallery?" Charlene asks as I tuck into my pastrami and Diet Coke.

Swallowing, I glare. "So you and the others can oogle over him? No, thanks. He…distant, anyways."

Charlene is unperturbed. "Not even to show him where you work?"

"He isn't my boyfriend."

"Uh-huh."

I don't need to defend myself to her; the mere idea of Luke dating is an unsettling thought. He just doesn't strike me as a couple-person. Some people are couple people - - -and he isn't one.

Changing the subject, Charlene says, "So, Pepper and Tony are due here week after next."

"Oh." This is news to me. "Why?"

"Since they missed the gala, they felt so awful, Tony is flying in for a tour."

I'm incredulous. "Just a tour?"

"Well, I suspect it may also have something to do with the technology summit being hosted in the city that week," Charlene replies dryly. "But we can pretend it's just for us. Can you be the one to show them around?"

For the life of me, I can't understand why Charlene wouldn't want to smooze with the power couple. It's an opportunity I wouldn't miss, if I wasn't in her position. I don't mind; I like Pepper, and Tony always inadvertently amuses me. Without much thought, I accept.

"Good. They'll be here in the evening." Charlene grins. "And Ms. Potts wants to treat her tour guide to dinner."

I'm aghast. "Do they know it's me?"

"I'm sure they have a pretty good idea. C'mon, Tati, it'll be fun."

"But-Stark is, like, a superhero."

"All the more reason to go! They'll be here around six, then Pepper wants dinner in the hotel. And, you can bring a date." My boss winks.

I have no doubt she's scheming on what she thinks in my behalf. Any guy would jump at the opportunity to meet The Tony Stark, a man's man. Unfortunately, Luke isn't "any guy." I don't think he'd give a rat's ass.

Like I need to impress him, anyways.

**-XXX-**

Luke Laufeyson is a good house guest. I come home to find the dishes in the dishwasher, the front door locked, all unnecessary lights off, and even some of my clutter minimized. There is even something in the over, something that smells like it might be dinner. For a moment, I stand in the middle of my kitchen, mouth agape.

Winchester trots in shortly after, whiskers stiff. He rubs against my bare legs, looking up at me before he cries. It's dinner time for him. I get the feeling he isn't too pleased with me for leaving him alone with a stranger all day. I coo as I scour the cabinets for the cat food bag, telling him what a handsome and good boy he'd been for me.

"I've never been called handsome before."

A voice from behind shakes me from my search, and I turn to see Luke leaning against the threshold to the living room. His smile is one of ease, white teeth glinting. I feel myself flush, and play along. I don't feel in the mood to correct myself, because, well, he is handsome. In his own, sharp, dangerous kind of way. Like a snake is beautiful. Or a shark. Or some other slinky, cold-blooded creature.

"Never?"

"Well," he says, entering the room on lazy limbs. "There was that time last night when you might've mentioned it…."

Of course. If I could facepalm, I would, but my fingers have touched the top of the Purina, and I pull it from the shelve, my eyes on Win, who is pacing, tail like a fluid whip. I fill his bowl, watching him as he rushed upon the food. The bag is rolled down, and I replace it on the shelf.

"Sorry about that," I murmur. "I don't know what came over me."

"You were tired. Stressed. How was your day?"

**-XXX-**

Over dinner (which is not nearly as awkward as our first had been, thank God) I tell Luke about my boss. More specifically, I tell him that she's dying to meet him. And then, that he won't be meeting her. He raises his brows in that way he does, and asks, "Why ever not?"

I don't really have an answer, but assure him it's a bad idea. We move on to other topics, namely, his day.

To my surprise, he hadn't been incredibly bored. In fact, he'd had a grand ol' time reading through my personal library. When he _lists _titles, I know I'm in trouble. Even if it just takes him a month to adapt, he's likely to run out of reading materials unless he slows down. But, I am encouraged that he'd doing something with his day. Better that than moping. Well, better than a lot of things that he might be doing, actually. We end up having a lively discussion of his reading, the primary focus being _Beowulf._

It's not favourite of mine, by any means, merely something I felt was necessary to my collection. A classic, it was a drag to get through, honestly, though written in a poetic form. Luke, of course, loves it. When I tell him there is a movie he gets genuinely excited. He orders, more so than asks, that we watch it.

For the first time since he's woken up, I feel comfortable in Luke's presence. We eat and talk, sharing a bottle of some old red that had been hiding in the back of my cabinet (or, "wine cellar," as I tell him in that ironic tone). The drink relaxes us both. Enough so that he tells me a little bit more about his past.

"I'm the younger brother," he says, swirling his wine in its glass. "Thor was always…physically stronger than I. And, in our family, that's what is really admired. I was the intelligent. And he was just always…better."

"That can't be true," I protest softly.

Luke shakes his head. "No, he was revered. No matter how clever I was, it was nothing in comparison to my brother. I've always been weaker, smaller."

Eyeing his wiry muscles, I wonder just how buff this older brother could be.

"Does he love you?" I ask.

He blinks. "What?"

I stare into my wine. "My little brother was always a troublemaker. He had ADHD…he was kind of hyper. Always into something. Not very smart in his schemes, but he caused a lot of problems at school. Whereas I," I took a drink. "Was the 'good child.' I had my fair share of issues, but when I was older I received a lot of awards and local honors for various things. Active in school, stayed away from drugs. Even when he was being good, Jay always had me stealing his spotlight."

Luke considers this, frowning. "Does he resent you for it?"

"I don't think so. At least, not all the time. He might be jealous, but he found his own thing. While I was a nerd, he eventually went to state a couple of times in sports. He could always kick my ass, anyways. Outrun me, and stuff like that. We sort of evened-out, over time."

He seems to absorb this slowly.

Quietly, I say, "I think it all matters on how we handle things like this. Not necessarily how people treat you, but how you react."

Perhaps these differences are what lead to Luke's estrangement. I don't ask, but my heart hurts for him. It's hard to come in second place.

We continue the discussion long into the night. Wine switches out to tea (we're both buzzed, but the tea takes us in an entirely different direction). As I curl in the larger armchair, Luke paces the room, letting the conversation flow. Balancing my mug on my knee, I lean forward at the exciting bits, struggling not to slosh myself when I laugh. He's quick to smile tonight. It's not just any smile either. This one is bright. Genuine. I can tell, because he has a habit of rubbing his chin and upper lip when he grins, half-laughing. He was clean-shaved when I found him, I remember. This must simply be yet another change. One I think I might like.

Not that my opinion matters.

**-XXX-**

** Before I even started scrawling down this piece, I knew my main character had to be someone who was specifically an older sibling. The dynamic would work only if that happened. I think the psychology of who Loki is has been centrally based around his experiences as a younger brother. I want him to gain some perspective on the other end. **

**Truth be told, I did pull some of my experience as an elder sister to put in Tati's POV. People can always surpass their raisin' (to use a very Southern term), and Loki, I feel, choose to let the inferiority complex take him. He's smart enough to overcome it. **

**It's always lovely to see follows and favourites-thanks so much for the support. Reviews would also be lovely, but I'll keep writing no matter what feedback I receive. If you're looking for a conversation about various motivations, just to critique, comment, or question, I answer all. Just ask K.L., haha.**

**Thank you for reading,**

**~Dania**


	9. Facet

The following evening follows suit of the previous, and then the next, and the next, and he's realized they have fallen into a routine of eating and drinking and laughing. Usually they talk about books, but sometimes things like her work, and his transition back into "life." To his surprise, the God of Mischief reasonably likes this toned-down lifestyle. Besides, he enjoys Tatiana's little breezy comments. She's got wit that one, sly and quiet, but there. And she appears to enjoy him in turn.

One night he's taken to pace, as he does, when he leans over the back of her particular armchair to emphasize a point. Oh, he does enjoy hearing her breath hitch, and watching her pupils expand every time he nears. This instance is no different. However, instead of rearing back as she normally does, Tatiana draws nearer. She reaches out to finger the hair lining his chin. The god doesn't move as she strokes, outlining from his jaw to just above his lip. She meets his eyes slowly, a colour rising in her cheeks.

"You didn't have this before," she says shyly.

"No, " he agrees.

"It's…interesting."

The god smiles. Her fingers brush his upper lip accidently with the motion. "How so?"

"Oh, just you," she replies vaguely, withdrawing her digits, eyes shielded. He's disappointed.

And then, not. She's never touched him before-at least, not whilst he was conscious. More than once in his comatic state he had sensed (or seen) her clutching his hand, run fingers though his dark locks, touch his pale cheeks. She was a deeply sensual person, much like himself. Touch was important to her. It defined relationships. It healed.

If anyone else had dared such impertinence, the former prince might've sliced off their fingers himself. Or magicked them into something unpleasant-say, stone, or wood.

She is the exception. Her touch restored his calm. The fire that built in him through his days alone, fanned by circular throught, could be cooled with Tati's frivolous chatter and humored quirk that was her smile. Besides, his powers are waning with every day spent so disconnected from his realm. Such a spell would be a waste. He needs something to replenish himself. And preferable soon.

**-XXX-**

He is very interested in Tony Stark's visit to the city and his housemate's place of work. Tatiana can't seem to explain the inventor's motivations. She simply shrugs. "How should I know? He and Pepper come and go as they please-besides, it's nothing but a benefit for the gallery."

Though, perhaps not a benefit to him. Could Stark have figured something out? Did he know where Loki now resided? The man had more connections than SHIELD. It was a realistic possibility.

The god wasn't as concerned for himself as he was his reader. Loki could slip out from the Avenger's grasp (and had done so on multiple occasions). Tatiana didn't have that skill, unfortunately. She was something of a vulnerability of his. His, even though she didn't quite know it yet. The thought pleases him.

"And you're having dinner with him?"

"And Pepper," she confirms. "Will you be okay for the night?"

Loki resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I believe so, Tatiana. I shan't starve."

She smiles at this. "Good to know."

He found it amusing she cared so. If he hadn't assure her, what might Tatiana have done? Frozen a few sandwiches? Cook him a feast to be neatly packed and labeled in her in fridge? It was an endearing thing.

"Will Stark be making any business deals with you?" He doesn't know how these things work. But he knows politics.

"Probably not. He'll make any sort of offers to Charlene, like donations and stuff. But it's not likely. This is just kind of a night off for them-and I'm the paid entertainment."

Part of him finds this a little humorous, yet another finds the suggestion offensive. He frowns, slightly, knowing this was not too far off from the mentality he'd once (and likely still) possessed as an Asgardian prince. Loki says nothing, though, but lets her continue the chatter.

If he wanted, he might convince her to let him come. See Stark. Figure out the man's motives. It would be easy-Tatiana would be _happy_ to let him go. But he won't exert himself like that. Let her have her dinner. Afterwards, he would discern whether the Iron Man had any ulterior motives to dining with his, Loki's, reader. The night's events could ultimately alter the god's plan (not that he had much of a plan in place-yet). It may be a break. Or it might very well be what send him "outta Dodge," as he'd heard Tatiana quote once.

He isn't quite ready to leave yet. Not by a long shot.

**-XXX-**

Saturdays are godsends. I'm a sleeper-sleeping in is as natural as breathing to me. I can make it all the way to noon if left undisturbed. Which, is a rarity when you've got a cat like Win in residence.

This Saturday is no different from the others. Win hops on the bed, landing on my chest, around nine. I roll over, hoping the little beast will get the message. No such luck. He shifts to come near to my face, crying loudly. He wants breakfast. And damnit, he wants it now.

"_Now that I've got a roommate, why can't he feed the damn cat?"_

Winchester cries again, poking his grey head in my face, brushing my cheek. I feel pinpricks of his claws as he kneads my arm I have slung over my forehead with his paws.

"Go away," I grumble. "I fed you before bed. You're going to get chubby."

He disagrees, wailing.

After a little more whining (on both sides) I rise. I'm not happy about it. Winchester bounds down from the bed. I swear, he looked smug. Brat. At this rate, how am I going to handle children? That is assuming someone would ever _want _children with me.

I shrug on one of my silky bathrobes, tying off the sash before I open the door. Once in the kitchen I feed the little demon before propping my half-awake body against the granite countertop to watch Win feed. Cats eating has always been something intriguing to me. I mean, half the time it looks like their choking. And they can't seem to chew/swallow with their mouths closed.

Looking around, I see that Luke has been thoughtful enough to start a pot of coffee. Tempting as it is, aroma of finely blended ground swirling about the kitchen, I decide I don't want to wake up quite yet. Maybe later. As for now….bed.

Cresting the top of the stairs, though, I am greeted with a sight that wakes me. Accidentally. I'm sort of shocked awake.

The bathroom door opens and closes before me as Luke steps out in all of his damp, half-naked glory. I am privy to a vision of the wiry muscles that make up his arms and chest, the snake of hair extending past the towel line, and the deliciously creamy skin. He's built like a Greek god. No Apollo, but maybe a Hades. Darker, slighter…but an exquisite figure, nonetheless. I freeze on the stairs, eyes wide as Luke crosses the hall to his room. A squeak escapes, though, and the pale god finally sees me.

To my horror, he doesn't move to shield me. He doesn't slide into the bedroom, or stutter out an apology. Instead, Luke watches my mini-freak out with a smirk. Superior little smile in place, he says sweetly, "Oh, I didn't realize you were up. I apologize, Tatiana."

"Uh, it's okay," I mumble, ducking my head.

"No," he insists. "I've frightened you."

That's not quite what he has done- - -there is nothing frightful in my reaction. A smirk plays about his lips (which, I note unwillingly, are well-formed, and look very soft). Dryly, I look down again.

"You know what? I'm just going to go to mine room, and you should go to yours, and we should pretend this _never _happened. Okay?"

Luke shrugs. "If that is what you would prefer."

It isn't. "_Yes." _

**-XXX-**

We're at the grocery store the next day when I start thinking Luke might have intentions toward me that go deeper than "friend."

While examining the tomatoes (it was a task, let me tell you), I hear a faint sound from behind me. I assume it's Luke, who I sent sulking to the dairy aisle to pick up some eggs. That's why I don't look back right away, until someone say, "Big dinner planned?"

I spin. "Joseph!"

The doctor stands, sheepish, dressed in a burgundy sweater and jeans. I've never really seen him in anything else except scrubs before, so it takes me a minute to absorb his appearance. He grins, towering over me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask stupidly.

He lifts his shopping basket pointedly, and I feel like facepalming.

"Right. Shopping, duh." I close my eyes briefly. "Um, no I don't really have a dinner planned. Just stocking up, you know."

"Lot of food to be stocking up with."

"Well, she is feeding two now," a cool, accented voice says smoothly. Luke takes his place by my side, icy eyes directly on Joseph's level. He's being cold, which surprises me. I mean, this guy saved Luke's life. "Three, if you count the cat."

"Of course," Joseph replies, blinking. He too is thrown off by Luke's tone. "I didn't realize you were still there."

"Yeah," I say before Luke can respond. "Luke's been settling nicely. Um, that's a really nice, uh, cauliflower. Where'd you find it?"

Joseph jerks his thumb behind him. "Produce."

I don't mention we're in produce at this moment. Instead I smile. Reaching subtlety behind me, I find Luke's hand, squeezing. _"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up."_

The doctor looks somber, disappointed even. Guilt fills me. Strained, I smile.

"I haven't seen you since our coffee date. You must be really busy." We'd exchanged a few texts, and made plans to see a movie "sometime," but this had fizzled recently.

"I've been on-call a lot," he explains. "But I'm still game for that movie."

"Oh, yeah. Totally. You text me, okay?"

Looking back, I see Luke tighten his lips. I turn to Joseph, still smiling.

"I had a lot of fun last time," I tell him. "Can't wait!"

Joseph nods, thoughtful. We exchange only a few more words before parting ways. I retreat to Cereals, Luke following me sullenly, while the doctor goes to check out.

"You didn't even say twenty words to him," I hiss. "What was that about?"

"I don't like him," Luke says shortly, examining the selection of oatmeal. He lifts a maple and brown sugar flavor off the shelf.

Incredulous, I take the oatmeal from his hands, forcing him to look at me. "What has he done to you? Obviously something, as you managed to convey a shitton of loathing back there."

Luke shrugs.

"He's a good guy," I tell him. "And if I'm dating him-"

"You're allowing yourself to be _courted _by him?" Luke scowls.

"Uh, yeah. Hence the coffee date, and probably the movie next week."

He doesn't speak for the rest of the shopping trip. I, in turn, ignore him. It's got a level of immaturity equal only to that of a thirteen-year-old girl's (junior high is a sad, sad time, and I am not proud of my actions). The silent treatment extends through the drive, and even as we (or rather I, as Luke watches from the dining room, impassive as always) put away the groceries. He doesn't properly speak to me until dinner time, when he informs me under no circumstances will I date "Walker."

"What? I'm sorry, when did you become my mother?" Not that my mom ever had control over who I was dating.

"He's not good for you, Tatiana," Luke says, eyes hard, lips a tight line. "You could do much better."

_"Like you?" _I bite back. Instead, I cross my arms.

"This isn't up for discussion. My life, Laufeyson."

For a moment, his eyes darken. A foreboding expression crosses his face. I stare, unwilling to back down though I'm nervous. If I don't claim my ground here, I might as well let him rule my life. He eventually decides it isn't worth it. Turning back to his dinner, Luke grunts.

For that, I am totally going to makeout with Joseph in front of him.

**-XXX-**

**Things are starting to heat up! In more than one way...haha. **

**Reviews would be lovely! **


	10. All Plans Set Forth

**So, while writing, I got to chapter 18 today. I've got an outline that will take us to at least 25 chapters. I don't wish to draw this out-I can say that To Wish, my baby that was intended to be a mere 15 chapters, that somehow swelled to 44, drained me enough to stop writing OUaT things. I don't want this to be the same. **

**But yay, 8 chapters in stock! **

**-XXX-**

Luke doesn't grovel once, but somehow he earns my forgiveness. It may be the fact that he's taken to dumbfounding me by walking around shirtless on occasion, sneakily choosing these particular moments to ask for things or favour. For instance, this morning, when he comes down in nothing but a pair of green and blue plaid pajama bottoms. Buttering his toast, leaning casually against the counter, I am given the chance to oogle. I give a futile attempt at staring into my coffee mug, but when he slinks into the chair across from mine, I have no choice but to peek.

"I want to go to the gallery," he says conversationally.

"Oh…today?"

"Yes."

I look down at my cereal. "I don't know. I was hoping to sneak you in while Charlene was in Seattle next week. But she's going to be in today-"

"Why can't I meet your boss?" he demands. I blink.

"She is overwhelming. I just didn't want you to…you know. Freak."

Luke scoffs. "I think I will be fine, Tatiana."

Changing the subject, I ask, "Why do you call me that?"

"It's your name." He frowns.

"Yeah," I agree, taking a swig of my Colombian blend. "But most everyone else calls me Tati."

Shifting in his seat, Luke sniffs. "I prefer your full name."

"That's weird."

He polishes off his toast, standing. My eyes follow his figure as he crosses to place his plate in the sink. "It's a yes on the gallery, then?"

**-XXX-**

I relent. He accompanies me to work, pressed and proper in his black trousers and white shirt. He's also wearing a long charcoal coat, which I don't remember purchasing. I mean to ask, but he cuts me off asking if we can listen to something besides Billy Joel. The answer is no.

Charlene comes out of her office as soon as I arrive, prowling for someone to start a fresh pot of coffee in the staff room. As soon as I am spotted, she zooms in on us, gaze targeted on Luke. She crosses the gallery front room on a liquid stride, heels clacking, eyes frozen on us.

In a tight red pinskirt, black silk tank-blouse, and smart snakeskin stilettos, Charlene is a force of nature. I eye her warily when she stops before us. "I didn't realize you were bringing in a friend."

"He kind of insisted." I shrug. "Charlene, Luke, Luke, this is Charlene."

"This is Luke?" My boss feigns surprise. "Why, when you said you were keeping a comatose patient, I thought he would be a slip of a thing. But you're no ghost."

I'm not quite ready to let Charlene sink her claws in him yet. My hand finds his arm. Then his hand slides on top of mine, to my great surprise. Charlene's tastefully khol-rimmed eyes follow every motion of our limbs. Body language is everything, I remember.

"Well, he's has some recovery time." Nearly two weeks, I realize. "And he stayed pretty fit while he was…out."

Luke offers forth is other hand. "Delighted, madam. Tatiana has told me so much about the gallery and yourself."

"Tatiana?" Charlene looks to me, eyebrows rising. Everyone around here calls me Tati. "Well, all good things I hope. She's a treasure, isn't she? I don't know what I'd do without her."

Surprisingly, it sounds like my boss is trying to talk me up to Luke. I gape, watching as they chat about me and my work. Luke has that intense "_I'm-listening-to-every-vowel" _look on his face. I'm not that interesting, seriously. But they keep at it for nearly ten minutes while I hang back, shooting smiles at our guide-on-desk, Marcy, who is eyeing our boss and my guest curiously. Patrons mill around, though it's early.

We're expecting a school group around eleven, so I'm eager to get to my office and go through the gallery, checking off the various stations. We've recently received a few Norse pieces I want to review facts over-I'm a myths and history buff, but the Northern Europe stuff never really interest me. I need to remember where it's Thor's face carved on that stone, or Odin's, and what sacred creature heads the oak staff. The broach needs to be placed out. Then I need to clean up the label on the helmet….I shift uncomfortably as Charlene laughs loudly as something-or-other Luke has quipped.

"…I would love to have a personal tour."

Charlene beams. "Then I am sure our best guide can walk you around. Can't you, Tati?"

I blink, jerked from my internal memos and to-do list. "What?"

Luke's hand squeezes mine. "A tour, my dear."

"Oh, I don't know, I've got a lot to do." I turn to Charlene. "That school group is coming in-"

My boss waves her hand. "Oh, go on, _Tatiana_." Her eyes sparkle with the emphasis on my full name. "I am sure Ellen can set things up for you. What else is she doing?"

I think of poor Ellen, already swamped with prepping for a trip to a Florida auction house tomorrow and scripting labels for the new Norse pieces. She probably doesn't have time to set up my tour.

"No," I protest. "I really need to set things up."

"Come now, Tatiana." Luke tugs me nearer. "I want to see your work."

Charlene smiles wide, drifting away. "Have fun."

I scowl after her retreating back. Untangling myself from Luke, I stalk toward the first wall of painting. He follows, smiling.

**-XXX-**

He likes the collection. There is a wide variety here, a little of everything. The more abstract pieces he finds to be too sharp. The Georgia O'Keeffe flowers are deeply intriguing-he'd never looked at flowers that way before. Tatiana notes these as her favourites before they move on to a series of watercolours she describes a "breathtaking." He thinks them nice enough. But it's the Japanses storm watercolours, and several of what Tatian labels "_pop art_" that he sincerely enjoys, as well as an acrylic painting of the moon, a bust of some Roman somebody, the fluid clay urn with _"Raku glaze." _

All the while he keeps his hands to himself, behind his back. Tatiana appears more relaxed than he's even seen her, save when she is asleep. "_In her element," _he realizes. She is at peace. Her work is her sanctuary.

It can be seen in the way her eyes glow when describing the brush strokes of Monet, or monologues on glazing techniques. Her depth of knowledge is formidable; she's even read biographies on many of the featured artist, or the cultures that spawned those artists. Charlene had not been lying when she said Tatiana was the best at her trade. Her passion was evident. And very endearing.

Though he lost interest quickly in the surreal and abstract pieces in the collection, he feigned enthusiasm, using this time to observe Tatiana.

He would loathe to take her away from this. Though, at his side as when he ultimately ruled the Earth at large, she would have her pick of working environments. He could even establish her in anonymity.

They crossed a threshold into a dark room with slate-coloured walls and solid wood floors, scuffed with activity. The studio lights are warm on them. Tatiana crosses to the furthest wall, saying in her professional voice, "This is our ancient artifacts exhibit. The art of our past often translates into the art of today, which is why you will see many modern pieces her from Celtic, Middle Eastern, and Scandinavian or Norse artists alongside the ancient work."

"Interesting," he murmurs.

They walk along the built-in shelves, which have glass inset before the artifacts. A jade figurine catches his eye-pretty colour, but also vaguely familiar. The Grecian pottery is numerous. Tatiana can't seem to stop talking about the Egyptian idols, nor the druid broaches. He is lazily scanning the lineup when a small series of pieces, near the end, catch his eye.

They're what Tatiana would call Norse, but he knows them as Asgardian-styled. A helmet, heavy and aged, stands foremost, with a staff resting along the length of the case. But it is a few of the smaller members that Loki zeros in on. Specifically, a pendant and ring that look to be a part of some sort of set. Nobleman's jewelry. Very, very familiar nobleman's jewel.

He's ahead of her, having tuned out the speech on Chinese papermaking methods. Cutting her off, he asks sharply, "What can you tell me about these?"

Loki gestures. Tatiana doesn't appear to mind that he has interrupted her (in fact, he would wager his interest is only positive in her eyes). But when she sees what he's looking at, the young curator sighs.

"Damn. Well, those are actually pretty new to the collection, and I don't really know a lot about them. I was going to review some of the research before my school group," A disgruntled expression passes over her pretty features. "Until someone insisted on a private tour. I guess it is good practice for Tony and Pepper," she sighs.

"What do you remember?" He doesn't want to sound too interested, but it is important. If these are what he believes them to be, the god would not wish to attract unnecessary attention.

The pendant is without chain. It is in the shape of an axehead, set with a circular amber-coloured stone in the center. Runes curved along the edge. A knot of silver created the loop. He observes a faint glow in the core of the jewelry. One that Loki also finds in the ring. A thick band of silver, with copper braids lining the edges, a serpentine dragon curled around the circle, a similar stone held in the creature's eye. Not nearly as honeyed as the other stone, this one blazes green. Runes also run along the metal.

She muses briefly. "They were recovered from a burial site-accidental, you see, a farmer was plowing a new field, over turned some metal and what looked like a spearhead, called it in. It is believed to have belonged to a chief, or king-figure. The dragon is thought to represent the end of the world-god-eater, is what they called it. The weaving on this ring is a very traditional pattern. I can't read the runes on either, but I am told they speak of magic, power, and the gods. Thor, Odin, Loki, Freyr, and others."

She says his name with such casualness. The god feels himself quiver. She says it no differently from the others. Yet, from Tatiana's lips, it sounds mightier, kingly. Like that of a god.

"They are lovely," the god murmurs. "Who might've been thoughtful enough to purchase them?"

"Actually, they were donated, I think."

"By whom, may I ask?"

She names off an older couple, the Vinters, saying they lived a ways away. The god listens, examining the set.

By the time the pair walks away, over twenty scenarios are playing out in Loki's head, a variety of strategies for stealing the pendant and ring. Some were simple- - - magicking out the jewelry (which would no longer be a danger, as the owning the items would be solutions toward the restoring of his power), staging a human-esque robbery, or even using Tatiana to take it for him. However, this could endanger his reader. He isn't willing to do that yet.

They belonged to a king, she was right about that. Oh, it hadn't taken Loki a second to recognize one of his father's hammer-made, thunder-born gifts. These weren't merely pieces of human decoration, they were tools. Harnesses of power. Just what he might need to restore himself. The god felt such internal glee.

Long ago, his father had left the Midgardian kings with these trinkets, powerful amulets that absorbed energy. They are, essentially, batteries, filled with such a punch. Also, they contain a faint connection to Asgard, something that would surely bring about the uprising of his strength. With these, he would no longer wane. He would be formidable. Strong. An opponent to the Avengers.

He wanders about the gallery for the rest of the morning while Tatiana takes on her tour group. Occasionally, he encounters them, his reader heading the group, her voice sweet and calm, powerfully extending to the ears of all without strain. _"She is very good at what she does." _ Every time she saw him, Tatiana had the faintest smiling playing across her lips.

When they leave in the afternoon, she asks him, "What do you think?"

"Lovely," he drawls. "The facility, the art, your work. You are a true credit to the profession, Tatiana."

Surprised, she pauses. Loki continues on, pretending not to see.

**-XXX-**

**One note: My local art museum carries ancient artifact-y things, so I figured this was a legit scenario. **

**Loving all the alerts and follows on this thing! I hope you guys are enjoying the progress...does anyone think I need a beta? I got more than halfway through To Wish before people started suggesting. Feedback of any form would be great! **

**~Dania**


	11. Bind and Break

**As of today, I've reached chapter 23, with plans up to 28. It'll probably finish up around there. **

**Enjoy!**

**-XXX-**

That night, I'm interrupted in the midst of boiling water for pasta when the phone rings. I am forced to answer it with one hand, the other currently occupied with the pot of scalding water.

"Tait?"

The voice at the other end sounds surprised, as though they can't quite believe I've picked up. I squint through the steam, pushing a crying Win away with my foot. He's been sulking about the kitchen for the last hour, crying for treats, though he has a half-full bowl of dry food just around the corner. Disgruntled, he abandons me with a tangible huff.

"Yeah, who is this?"

"Joseph. Joseph Walker."

"Oh." I straighten. "Hey."

"Sorry, if I'm bothering you. I was just calling to…listen, I like you. Really like you, Tati. But my job doesn't allow for a lot of time to date….I guess what I am asking is, how serious are you? Like, casual dates or something…." He drifts off before resuming. "Solid."

At a loss, I stand in the middle of the kitchen. Joseph waits.

"Oh. Wow. Um, Joseph, you're right."

He doesn't respond right away. "…okay."

I take a breath for courage. I don't often do things of this nature. "But, um, I don't think right now would be a good time…a good time for _'us.'" _I am careful to emphasize _"right now." _"You are an awesome guy, and any girl would be lucky to have you. But my life is a little messy right now. Any, it really isn't the ideal point for me to get into something serious."

_"Coward."_

There is a pause before Joseph says flatly, "It's Luke, isn't it?"

The accusation causes me to flinch. Though, that might've also been the rush of steam in my face as I lift the pot's lid to check on the angel hair pasta. Behind me, the microwave dings, letting me know the peas are done. The red sauce bubbles on the stove.

"No!" I say honestly. "It isn't him, entirely. You're just too…good for me."

He clearly doesn't believe me, but neither does he argue. I do not apologize, and we hang up on good terms, if a little awkwardly.

**-XXX-**

He hears every word, and cannot deny that it pleases him immensely. The doctor has been rejected. Loki's reader is now entirely his.

There are no romantic notions invested in her, but that does not mean the god doesn't want her all to himself. Distractions and attachments will weaken them (though, he realizes the blasted cat will have to say, regardless). He needs her focus directed on him.

He did nothing to encourage Tatiana to let the boy down. But he feels pride nonetheless.

**-XXX-**

"Charming, as always!" Tony Stark lifts his glass to me. Beside him, Pepper beams. We all raise our flutes, clinking them together, sip, then tuck in. Well, Tony tucks into a massive steak. Pepper and I chat between bites of chicken. The silverware makes faint clicks against the china. I feel oddly at ease, more human than I've felt in days.

Pepper wants to know the goings-on of the gallery. They enjoyed their tour, Tony making his usual smart-ass lines, Pepper nudging and glaring. I find them impossibly sweet. Tony wants to know what "pieces of finger-paint" he's "passed off" to us. His assistant rolls her eyes, informing him that he has "donated" two Monets, a few Asian sculptures, and a number of sketches from less-famous artists. They are attributes to our gallery. I tell him so.

"Well," the billionaire drawls. "If all you needed were a few scribbles, Miss Deror, I'm sure JARVIS could oblige you."

His computer-butler? Pepper rolls her eyes.

"No, thank you," I reply politely. "But I'm sure your-less-than-stellar handiwork shall do."

Actually, Stark was rumored to be a decent artist. He was, after all, trained to sketch for engineering. At the very least, he could draw a straight line or two. Which is more than what I can do.

Throughout the evening, Pepper apologizes for her date. I'm not one for thin skin, however, so Stark humors more so that offends. I enjoy them both a great deal.

"So, the Avengers," I say at dinner. The topic isn't one I'd wanted to bring up, but Tony had just made some pass-along comment in regards to Steve Rogers and his inability to move past anything beyond jeans and leather jackets. "I never figured you for a team player, Mr. Stark."

Tony leans back. "You'd be right. I'm not." He doesn't look the least be perturbed. "But it needed doing. I _can _compromise."

Pepper's lips quirk, but her boss continues.

"We worked with the time we had, and I think we came out with a decent little group. Saved the world, at least. But, you know, that's not anything in the grand scheme. Gotta look at the big pictures." He casts his eyes to Ms. Potts, as if for permission, or some form of acknowledgement. He continued. "I am proud to be a part of the team."

I listen, intrigued. Tony doesn't say much more on the subject-instead, he gets a glassy kind of look across his normally open face.

"And the fiends that fought you?" I peer at Pepper to see if this is okay. She's quiet, but not unwelcoming. "Seven-foot green-scaled freaks from a hole in the sky. They said later it didn't happen. But I was there."

Pepper starts.

"Christie's was having an 'important' auction. I was close enough to see. Captain America actually came in. He herded us to the vault. Very polite," I add, remembering though as unpleasant as the experience had been, the Captain was calm, collect, and gentlemanly.

Tony snorted. "An alien army. But more like a hoard of giant insects. They meant to…infect our world. Starting with New York."

"Why New York?" I ask. "Do villains all read the same handbook. Why not Chicago? Miami?"

Tony smacks the table. "That's what I've been asking for years! I mean, did you see Stark Tower?"

I grin. "It was shredded."

"Yeah, no thanks to Hulk." The billionaire scowls. "You'd think he's show a little consideration, seeing as we left Loki to him,the bastard- -"

"Loki?" I frown. "As in, the God of-"

"Assholes." Tony says shortly. "Giant assholes. He wrecked my tower, kidnapped Barton, tried to destroy the world….Bastard." Beside him, Pepper shakes her head. I cannot tell if she is bothered by the damage list, or the idea of Loki.

"A Norse god?" I ask skeptically.

Stark shrugs. "Yeah, gods. I mean, look at Thor. They're brothers. From some…connected universe."

The name leaves me unsettled. I've no connection to it, but for some reason the roll of vowels feels familiar.

"What happened to him?" I ask. "It wasn't exactly on the news."

"Thor took him to Asgard," says Pepper quickly. "To be punished by the gods there."

I blink. "Oh. That's a pity."

"You're telling me," Tony says under his breath. "Bastard." But the way his eyes shift, I am unconvinced. It doesn't matter to me, honestly. Yet, suspicion rises within me. Why would they lie?

Technically, it shouldn't make any difference to me.

So, I smile, changing the subject to something gentler-the technology market. Stark bounds in with full enthusiasm. He skims over his recent work. Pepper adding various moments of commentary, jumping in to mention prototype flaws, much to Tony's chagrin. He takes it all in good humor. Pretending offense, the inventor steals her glass, draining it, mocking smile playing on his lips.

They are in love. It's painfully, beautifully clear. I greatly enjoy seeing their interaction, have enjoyed the night overall, and wish them the very best. We continue drinking and chatting for another hour or so. I leave full and happy. Warm with booze and good company, I hail a taxi, having been perceptive enough to leave my Volvo in my driveway.

**-XXX-**

Security is by no means lax. Yet, the god doesn't have to do much besides wave a few fingers to disarm the initial system to allow his entry. Even this drains him, and he curses his weakness. Power came from within, but a separation from Asgard has not helped him in the least.

He slips inside on light feet. Though it was not chilly, he wears his long woolen coat and scarf, the attire he visited Thor in, the same he'd worn in Germany. It feels…comfortable. Perhaps he is counting too much on the restorative powers of the jewelry, the god acknowledges, but it is a gamble he was willing to take. Living without magic would be akin to living without his hand; chances were to be taken.

Crossing through the gallery was no task, either, but in the darkness, it had lost its life. And gained shadows. He is cautious while weaving through the maze of rooms, shoes beating out a solid rhythm against the wood of the floors. The eyes in the portrait room seem to stalk him without relenting. He felt their gaze even as he left. Colours jump out in the dark, shapes intensified. Even though the gallery is entirely bare of life, he walks silently.

Upon entering the room in which the jewelry lay, he halts, hands clenched. Loki observes the chamber. The glass barriers will be easy enough to remove. The question is how. He approaches the glass. He could, with a gesture, remove that which he sought. But the god thinks better of it. This must look like a _human _robbery. Something done by an organization, not an Earth-bound god. Earlier he'd considered the specifics of what to steal besides the pendant and ring. He decides then and there to take one of those dreadful "abstract" pieces. With a thought, one canvas vanishes from the wall. It appears in the boiler room, behind some boxes. They'll find it within the month, he's sure.

One of the O'Keeffes had been under consideration, as he'd considered giving it to Tatiana, but he thought better of it. She could get in trouble, if found out. And she likes her job. Best to let her keep it, then.

Before he can forget, the god concentrates on the cameras. Their lenses are shadowed briefly, misty as Loki constructs a scene that will suit mortal eyes. Something different than his sole figure mucking about the place. He makes a note to break a window or two before he leaves as well.

The god removes his scarf, winding it around his hand, sneering as he gazes upon the Norse objects. The Midgardians and their idol-worship. He'd see that they were at it again. Soon.

His fist goes through the glass neatly. Crystal shards rain onto the floor, scattering about the brightly-lit case, glittering faintly against the black velvet. He unwraps his limb, then pluckes the pendant and the ring. The ring slides onto his middle finger, and he snaps the air for a whisper of moisture, weaving it into a thick chain for his new accessory. It sits against his chest. The stone flashes.

Loki feels a new swell of power within him. He stretches each of his fingers. Small sparks fly from the tips. He smiles.

It feels good to be back. A god in his own right once again. In his rightful place in the universe.

And soon, more.

King.

**-XXX-**

**I don't know if it's just this fandom in general, but you people don't like reviewing. Maybe it's just me coming off of Once Upon a Time stuff, with 10 or more a chapter. Or maybe Avenger fans simply are read-and-go types. Either way, I'd love your feedback. I just don't know how this story is doing. Should I update less? **

**How were Tony and Pepper? We might see some more of them later...**


	12. Matter of Crime

**I cannot tell you how much restraint it took not to post on the 14th- - -well, not the 14th in my time zone, it may be different for you. **

**My life is about to get kinda busy over these next two weeks, so updates might be spaced out a little. Luckily, I've hit 25 chapters. The outline is done. This will be 30 chapters.**

**And here I was originally thinking fifteen or twenty. Silly, silly me. **

**Thank you so much for the out-pouring of reviews. I felt a little guilty after posting the Author's Note. Sorry for the guilt trip...**

**But keep 'em coming. What do you think so far?**

**-XXX-**

He returns late in the night. When he left in the evening, Tati had departed only an hour before. Now, she was returned. He senses so the moment his foot crossed the threshold. She was back, in bed, weary and quiet, though no quite asleep.

Closing the door soundlessly, the god glids up the stairs, and into his room. Raising his hand, he called forth energy to scry the young woman. Tatiana lay in bed, curled around her cat. She hasn't removed any of her dress clothes, jewelry, or makeup. Her shoes sit mere inches from the mattress, tossed off without thought. Even with her eyes closed, he knows she does not sleep. The reader is thinking. Hard.

Had there been a call? Something to alert her to the break-in? Or is she simply musing over her dinner?

Smiling lightly, the god tosses the image upwards, where it dissolves with a faint _"pop." _He removes his boots, jacket, shirt and scarf, then stretches out on the bed, staring up at the stark white ceiling. The cold metal of the pendant weighs against his chest. For a time, he watches it rise and fall with his breath. Loki can practically feel the pure power seeping from the thing.

The ring feels much the same. Turning it in the faint light, the green stone twinkles merrily. He likes it well enough, but this isn't bound for him. They were never meant to stay together, he notes, turning the thing in his palm. Not a set, so much as a…complimentary pair. Siblings, meant to part.

He knows just where it ought to go.

Sighing, the god replaces the ring and slides from the bed to find proper sleeping clothes. He is tired tonight, with all of the bustled of reclaimed power. He'll need to rest for a day or two before exercising his ability. A plan of action is already forming in his mind, but for now he will take some sleep.

Content in his work, Loki Laufeyson, God of Mischief, drifted into unconsciousness with great peace.

**-XXX-**

Unfortunately for the once-prince, he didn't wake under such tranquil circumstances. A near-splitting shriek breaks through the god's stream of consciousness, jolting him awake. Serenity shattered, Loki rose swiftly to cross to the door, flinging it open. _"Tati."_

The noise came from her bedroom. He pays the lock no mind, gesturing for it to slide across, granting him access. Entering, Winchester rears up on the mattress, hissing and spitting, back arched, eyes slits. Tatiana whirls, cell clutched to her ear, eyes wide and red. The god stops. She is uninjured.

**-XXX-**

The call wakes me around six. It's actually my day off, so when I see Charlene's name glaring up from the screen, I consider ignoring the call. Then I note the time. She wouldn't call me at six in the morning if it wasn't important. Before I answer, I murmur a quick prayer that it's not a request to fly out to Boston for another auction, as she made Anita do last week.

It is worse.

At first all I hear is hysterical gibberish; moaning and weeping. I wince, trying to discern some form of recognizable speech. With none forthcoming, I ask, "Charlene? I seriously can't understand you.

"Tati," my boss gasps. "Oh, you need to get over here! We've had a robbery."

"What?" I sit up (still, I notice with disgust, in my clothes from the night before). The word comes out as a scream more than a question. I instantly quite myself, letting her continue. Rising to pace, I listen as Charlene outlines the course of events.

"Frank-" Our custodian of twenty years. "-came in early to start waxing the floors. He found glass all over the floor of the Neo-Impressionist and Baroque rooms. Someone broke one of the side windows and disabled the system," she is clearly crying. Charlene loves the gallery as much as I do, loves her work and her position. This offense clearly devastates her. "They stole one Kupka, and the two newest things in the ancients section."

The funny dragon-snake ring, and the axe charm, I realize. The Kupka was a nice piece, too. Popular. We frequently sold out of his prints and those little postcard prints.

"Have you called the police?" I demand. "Has anyone been caught, or questioned?"

I am in business mode, my focus solely on the gallery. But before my boss can answer, the door to my room burst open, and there stands Luke in the threshold, his icicle eyes on fire. Winchester, who has been peering at me curiously since I picked up the call, and is still on the bed, hisses. Luke ignores him.

"Are you alright?" he asks forcefully, taking in my tears. "I heard a scream."

"That was me," I tell him.

"What?" Charlene sniffs, still on the line.

I press the phone back to my ear, holding up one finger to Luke. "Uh, my roommate heard me scream, and kinda freaked."

Luke rolls his eye. I mouth an _"I'm sorry."_

"Oh," Charlene says. "Okay. Can you make it over here? We still need to check if anything else is missing, and the police want to interview everyone…."

I frown. "What? Why? I was out with Stark and Pepper last night, you know that."

"I know," she sighs, defeated already. I pity her. Being the boss is no easy task. "But they just want to clear everyone's names before they continue. Right now they're pulling the video feed. Once we have that it should be easier, but for the moment, they are asking everyone come in. And," she says, voice quavering. "I need you."

I understand. "Of course, sweetie. I'll be there as soon as I can. Alright. Bye."

Once I hang up, Luke descends on me. His eyes still blaze, cool flames of green-grey as he asks what happened.

"The gallery was robbed last night," I say wearily. "Charlene and the police want me to come in. I've got to hurry."

I pull myself from his grasp-well, I mean to. But his hands are iron shackles on my arms and I am forced to stay in place. For once so slight, he hides his strength well. "Are you sure? That sounds dangerous." Luke frowns. "I don't like the thought of them questioning you, Tatiana."

"Well, I thank you for the concern, but I'm sure it will be fine," I assure him, pointing out that I have been questioned before-in regards to his case as the mysterious coma patient. His lips quirk, but Luke doesn't release me quite yet.

"What was taken?"

"One canvas and two of our things from the ancients exhibit." I consider. "You remember them, the necklace thing and the band? They were Norse."

"Of course. I didn't realize they were so valuable," he replies, brows furrowing.

Actually, now that I thought about it, in comparison to some things we have in the gallery, they are really not so valuable. If I were an art thief, there are at least twenty things I'd take before those particular items.

"I've got to go," I tell him, tugging away as best I can. "Charlene needs me."

"She can wait." His voice is surprisingly husky, what I assume to be the effects of morning. "Tatiana-"

I look up into his liquid eyes. There is less fire now, but something else reigns in them. I blink as Luke's gaze consumes me. He struggles to find words, mouth a tight line as he looks plainly at me.

Then the moment passes.

I find that his hands have left my arm (though, somehow I am closer to him before, chest-to-chest, in fact). Without a sound, I step away, eyes still stuck on his.

"I've got to go," I repeat, croaking. He nods. We part, Luke back to his room, me to my closet. Briefly, I am thankful he found me in clothes, rather than the short-shorts and tee or tank I normally sleep in.

But all too soon, my mind brushes the man away, searching for something suitable to wear. What does one wear to a questioning? How do you dress for such a thing? Is orange suitable? Or should it be a serious black? Mechanically, I dress in khakis and a floral print blouse, tossing my unwashed hair into a bun and sweeping foundation on my face. Fresh shadow, liner, and new mascara brighten my eyes more than coffee ever could, and I throw back my head for some eyedrops before going out the door. I'll pick up coffee at McDonalds or something. But I feel far too ill to eat.

**-XXX-**

I receive a call less than ten minutes into my drive. It's Joseph.

"I was driving by this morning and saw the yellow tape," he says, concerned. "Everything okay? I heard about the robbery. It's all over the radio."

Assuring him all is well- - - or, at least, under control-I thank Joseph for his call. He's sweet, even after rejection. My heart twinges at his thoughtfulness. I don't deserve him- - -which is why I cut him loose. Someone much nicer than I will make him a very happy man. But not me.

"I'm actually on my way over there right now," I explain. "My boss needs me, you know, and then she said the police had a few questions."

"They surely don't think it's you," Joseph sounds serious. "I mean, c'mon, Tati, you'd be the last person to rob an art museum."

"They're just trying to clear names first. I'd rather get it over with, anyways."

"Well, be careful," he warns. "I don't want to have to bail you out."

I laugh easily, feeling weight lift from my shoulders. "You're a doctor," I say playfully. "Aren't you supposed to be rich, or something?"

"Eh, that's what they say to lure you into med school." I can practically hear him grin, and my heart gives another twinge. Why couldn't I be with this guy, nice, safe, sweet, funny Joseph? Oh, that's right. Because. I'm weird art history girl, who lives alone with her cat, and is destined to do so until the day I drop dead.

And no matter how nice or sweet or lovely Joseph is, he will always be…boring. Safe.

_"Not like Luke," _a little voice whispers from the back of my mind.

_"Not like Luke," _I agree internally. _"But that isn't a bad thing."_

We continue talking for several more minutes before I have to go. I tell him, in much better spirits than I'd started the morning with, that he's brightened my day already. "Thank you, Joseph."

Cheerily, he tells me to have a good day, and that he might call me tomorrow to check up, and to not let the strain get to my health. Stress, according to him, can wear on the immune system. I assure him I'll try not to let that happen. Then, it's off to work.

**-XXX-**

Charlene's hysterics have died considerably since our call. She hugs me, waves for someone to refill her coffee, then guides me to an officer she introduces as Detective Morrison. Morrison is a bulky fellow wearing a sports coat and khakis. He looks me up and down, then asks if he can use Charlene's office to conduct our questioning.

I tell him the facts: I had dinner with two of our donors last night after giving them a personal tour, then took a taxi home. I set the alarm and locked up before I left. There was nothing funny that caught my eye. And nobody weird waiting outside when we left.

It is a brief affair, and when Morrison (who looked bored, but otherwise convinced that my little art-nerd self had nothing to do with the thievery), escorts me back to the lobby where others wait, we encounter a protesting Pepper and Tony. They immediately turn to us, telling the detective that under no circumstances was he to arrest me, as I was with them last night. Warm feeling rise in me - - -these people are mere acquaintances to me, yet here they are, going out of their way to protect my ass, my reputation, and my job.

"She's not under arrest," Morrison tells them mildly.

"That's what I was saying," Charlene says, barely hiding her exasperation in the billionaire inventor and his CEO girlfriend. "It's standard practice for these kinds of things."

Pepper has the dignity to look embarrassed. Tony, however, begins questioning Morrison. "Do you have anything yet?"

"Not yet."

"We're suing their ass to hell," he assures me fiercely, spinning to face me. "And paying for the repairs on this place."

"Oh, no-"I being, but Charlene shoots me a took.

"I'm so sorry," Pepper begins. "I know you loved those Norway pieces. You couldn't seem to stop talking about them."

Had I? I don't remember this. Either way, I thank the couple repeatedly. Pepper smiles, while Tony tosses his hands carelessly.

"Not a problem. I just don't like to see people's asses being dumped into jail for no logical reason. You're not the art-robbing type, anyways. Worshipping, maybe, but you're not sneaky enough to be a thief."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I say dryly. "But thank you, Tony, Pepper. It's nice to have people willing to stand up for you."

"If you need anyone to back you," Pepper says. "Just shoot us a call. Charlene has our number."

They leave, arm-in-arm. I watch them go, happy to see such a well-matched pair. Then, I return to Charlene, to hold her hand and fetch her coffee, and tell her that everything is going to be okay. Because, that is, for now, my lot in life.

**-XXX-**

With his reader out of work, he exercises his fresh power. It feels good to be himself again. Satisfaction sinks into his very bones. Loki loves the crackle of energy between his fingers.

Yet, soon he is has finished his exercises.

Out of boredom, he scrys his reader at work. To his frustration, he sees Stark - - -the Avenger he probably loathes the least. Ah, and there is Iron Man's woman. Ms. Potts, the enterprising CEO. They are suited for one another. A power, between the two of them.

The sight of the pair reminds him of Tatiana's suitors. He had seen photos of a few, stuffed in the bottom of her sock drawer. On one of their conversations, she had mentioned them, outlining their idiot tendencies and overviews of the relationships. The god felt irrational flash of pleasure to know she had not had any recent suitors.

"I'm busy," she explained. "Boyfriends take time. And I already have a finicky man in my life."

For a brief moment, he fears she means him, Luke the human, but then she scoops up her blasted feline to kiss him on his small, furry skull.

Watching her now, he thinks perhaps she could use someone - - -finicky or no- - -to defend her as Stark did. After all, the Iron Man wouldn't always be around.

**-XXX-**

**Kupka is an actual artist. His canvas is one of the ones Loki didn't particularly like. **


	13. Live Without This

**Lovely reviews! Posting a little early because it's been a bad day, and I feel satisfied when I update. **

**I seriously need to get to the theater an see this film again...Sept. is too far away. **

**-XXX-**

Joseph Walker stands on Tatiana's stoop. Loki frowns as the taller man crossed his arms.

"Can I help you, Joseph? Tatiana is out right now."

The doctor nods. "Yeah, I know. I actually came because I knew she was at work. I didn't want to do this in front of her."

Though the man looms, Loki is not to be intimidated. He feels the heavy coolness against his chest, granting him power enough. He stares up, impassive, jaw locked. He has had his share of bullying- - - Asgard is a land of warriors, after all- - -and has perfected a chilly expression when need be. This is nothing he'd revealed to Tati, in all their time together. He knows it would frighten her more than any of his magics. Cold. Distances.

"Do what?" Loki intones.

Walker uncrossed his arms. "Confront you."

The god raises his eyebrows. "Over…what?"

The doctor didn't answer. Loki nods slowly. "Very well…come in, doctor."

They stop in the kitchen. Loki makes the offer of a drink (wryly reminding himself of a certain Stark). Joseph doesn't accept. His eyes are dark, hard flinty pieces, and his entire figure of stone. He is trying to be menacing. And, in Loki's mind, failing miserably. The man might scare a puppy, a small child, or perhaps even another ill-witted human being. But not a god. At least, not this god.

Loki pours himself a glass from Tatiana's fridge purifier- - -the closest thing to Asgard's icy mountain spring water- - - and seats himself from across the younger man. He drinks slowly, observing Walker.

"What is it you wish to speak of, doctor?"

"Last night I was out for a walk-"

Loki sneers. "How intriguing."

The young man glares, continuing. "I live about five blocks from the gallery where Tati, downtown. I jog, sometimes, around there. Last night, I happened to be there around the time of the break in. And I saw…someone…leaving. Probably the thief."

"Oh?" Loki plays about an expression of mild interest - - -two parts disinterest, one part care.

"It was really dark, but I could've sworn I saw _you." _Joseph doesn't appear comfortable.

Loki froze. He had been careful. There was no way. Walker is bluffing. It is a shot in the dark. The boy's jealous is taking its toll. Just an envious accusation. Carefully, slowly, the god says, "I don't know how that could be. I was here, with Miss Deror all night."

He puts emphasis on _"Miss Deror all night." _It's a slap in Walker's face. The young man winces. Loki continues. "It was very dark, anyways, I'm sure. You're mistaken, doctor."

"I don't think so," Joseph shook his head, fist clinching. "It was you. I'm sure."

"Why ever would I rob the galleries collection for a few pieces of jewelry?" Loki snorted.

"I don't know, Luke." Walker stares, unflinching. "Why would you?"

The god spreads his hands wide, uncaring, not gracing the man with a vocal response. For a long moment the two gaze at one another, a silent battle of wills dominating the space. Neither looks away when Loki speaks.

"I know what you're doing, boy," he says in a low tone. "And she won't have you. Not while I'm here."

"She doesn't deserve you. Not after this. I'll tell her. Or," he pauses. "You can."

Coolly, Loki swallows the last of his water. "I have nothing to tell."

Walker attempts to stare down the god again. "Then leave. Get out. She doesn't _need _you. Tatiana's a great girl-better than you deserve. You'll just bring her down, Laufeyson. I won't let you do that."

"Oh, won't you?" The god bares his teeth. Godly visage follows, complete with his typical Asgardian attire. The doctor is left realizing that this week really hasn't been his week.

**-XXX-**

Thor took women. The warriors had lovers. Even Loki took one willing court lady to bed, occasionally. But he'd never kept them. That was neither his intent, nor theirs. He has never claimed a woman, as his brother has, nor ever wanted to. Females, non-warrior or scholar or royal females, were distractions in his life. He had his studies, his magic, and his aspirations to tided his appetite.

Besides, he was never considered particularly handsome for Asgard's standards. Compared to the bronze and fair brother, the slighter, darker sibling was often overlooked. His mother might brush back his hair, smile softly, and say he was the most handsome of the realm, and he may smile back indulgently, but Loki Odinson knew it was Thor who held the title of family beauty. And, for a time, he was content to being the intelligent one.

Then the phrase their father had said echoed about the young man's head.

_"You were both born to be kings."_

Were they? Were they really? Why, if two kings dwelled in the house of Odin, was there only one kingdom to be had?

Would Loki be forced to find his own way? Accept table scraps as always?

He brooded a long time over these questions. The dark young man, stuck in the shadows of his father's court, watched as Thor was honored over and over with gifts and feathery words he did not deserve. He saw the women fawn. Their own father beaming with a heart full of pride. Loki might performed the greatest of magics, but it would _always be _Thor. The blessed elder son.

Thor would rule as clumsily as the hammer he wielded. Loki had the grace and finesse to reign as a true king. A good king. A _great _king.

_"If only father were able to see…." _

Then came the day Loki realized why his father would never see him as the ruler of Asgard. He saw it in his own reflection, and in his arm on the day Thor was cast out. Skin the colour of slate and the temperature of ice. Eyes a bloody red. He was a beast. A cold Jotun beast. And no Jotun could rule Asgard.

He was born a king. Just not a king of this realm.

Therefore, he would have to find his own.

He did, in Earth. Found a realm and a peoples he could rule. However, other didn't quite see his vision, and he had been forced to back down. Down, in a physical sense.

But, if it were not for that, he may have never met his reader, collected the museum pieces, nor found new strength.

"_Oh yes. I shall be keeping all of these things."_

**-XXX-**

Holcomb calls me that evening. I'm on my way home from work. Actually, I'd actually just gotten off the phone with Luke - - -we're going out for dinner, downtown to a locally famous steak place. He'd said, in that sympathetic, smooth and low voice, that of course I was stressed. With the robbery, I must be under such strain. So, why don't we go out tonight?

Almost like a date. Almost.

The number is unfamiliar to my phone, so I answer with caution. "Hello?"

"Tatiana Deror?"

The voice is familiar. "Nurse Holcomb?"

"Yes," she says. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but have you seen Joseph, by chance? Or maybe received a call?"

"Doctor Walker?"

"Yes," she repeats shortly.

"No, I haven't. Um, should I have?"

"He was going over to your house this morning." I can practically hear her frown, taste her confusion. "To see you."

Baffled, I turn down my radio, fiddling with the other buttons as I say, "That's weird. He knows I was I work. I mean, he called me this morning wanting to go out for coffee, but I had to turn him down. Is he missing, or something?"

"He's more than three hours late for his shift."

I straighten. "What?"

"I know. It's not like him," Holcomb says worriedly. "Have you really not heard from him?"

"No, I'm sorry." My drive is coming up. I shift the phone, turning the wheel. "I will give him a call, and let you know if he turns up. Maybe he just…slept in?"

"Maybe," Holcomb agrees helplessly. "And, maybe, if you're in the area, could you stop by his house? Maybe try the door, see if he's in. This just isn't like him."

I think of my dinner date. It should be no problem to make a quick trip to Joseph's home. I have been over there before, dropping off some baked goods when Joseph had the flu almost a month ago. I know where it is. I feel a little guilty for not thinking of this before. "Oh, yeah, totally! I will call you if I find anything out."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

Walking up my sidewalk, I give Joseph's cell and house number a try. Nothing. I frown.

Luke greets me from his armchair, rising when I'm inside. "Tatiana."

"Hello," I pause from setting down my purse and keys on the small bar in the foyer. Tilting my head, I ask, "Did Joseph Walker come by sometime today?"

Luke stops before me. Inches away, I'm forced to look up.

"No, I do not believe so."

I raise a brow. "You don't think so?"

"I have not seen him," Luke amends. "He has not come here."

Curious. I drift away from him, musing. Deep in thought, I go to the kitchen, ready to fill Winchester's dinner bowl. He hasn't come to say hello yet, as he usually does. He's a cat, though. They're inconsistent creatures. I think nothing of it.

"Why do you ask, my dear?"

Luke has followed me into the kitchen.

"Oh, someone was calling after him." I say dismissively. "He missed his evening shift. Before we hit up the downtown scene, I want to go to his house. To make sure he's okay. "

My housemate doesn't look pleased, but nods. "Of course."

I take a few minutes switch out my attire for something more fun- - my floral-patterned blouse for a dark blue silk tank, dressier jeans, some glittery wedges, and one of my long silver-stand necklaces with a pink stone as the charm. My hair requires a little help- - - a few twists of my curler, some hairspray. I spritz a touch of lavender body spray on my neck, layering it with vanilla. It's not a date, but I still want to look nice. I balance my way downstairs on those wedges. Luke waits at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes liquid, looking crisp and clean. He's in a sage dress shirt, and a pair of charcoal trousers. He looks positively fresh. A sigh accidently slips from me. Luke grins.

"You look lovely. A vision to behold," he says in that oh-so charming tone I can never believe. Pure silk. I accept the arm that is offered to me. And we're off.

**-XXX-**

Joseph doesn't answer his door. His car isn't in the drive or the garage. I bit my lip, turning on the doorstep, searching uselessly. Where could the doctor be?

To my supreme luck, one of his neighbors beckons me over. An older woman, dressed in an ankle-length muumuu of bright orange, she peers at me from owlish glasses. Humbly, I ask if she's seen Dr Walker today. She squints at me.

"Joseph? He left around noon this morning, after bringing up my paper from the driveway. He's a nice boy."

"Yes ma'am, he is," I agree. "I was just wondering, since he didn't show up for work."

"Oh." She blinks. "That's not like Joseph. Not like Joseph at all."

Again, I agree. "Would you tell him to call the hospital, if you see him?"

"Of course. I do hope he's okay, honey. What was your name again?"

Back in the car, Luke leans across to ask, "Any luck?"

"No," I sigh. He'd remained in the Volvo while I searched. "I guess he took a personal day. He said sometimes he went to lake, fishing, or biked the trails there. He didn't mention anything about it this morning, though. I just hope he's alright."

To my surprise, Luke pats my shoulder kindly. "I'm sure he is. Perhaps he was a little put out over your rejection of him last night."

I flush. "I didn't realize you were listening in."

"You weren't exactly quiet," he says dryly. "Shall we go to dinner? I am sure Mr. Walker will surface soon."

I agree, and we leave.

**-XXX-**

I moved here, approximately a thousand miles away from my family, when I was twenty-one. I had just finished my degree, was looking for a job and a house. Winchester was my second roommate in this city - - -the first had been an ex, a lawyer fresh from his degree, rearing to take on suits. Win was also my last roommate, until Luke.

Coming to this city was an escape. I love my family dearly. Jay is my best friend. My mom understood me like no one. And my dad was just always there. But, that being said, I had to get out. Their love was overbearing. I needed to find a life all my own, free from their influence. I still wanted to be a part of what we were- - -The Derors, family of four, people who kayaked on weekends, who loved Chinese takeout, and could play Apples to Apples for three hours straight with no clear winner in sight. I didn't want to leave that identity behind.

When I left, it felt like maybe it could work. We could still be one happy family, though hundreds miles separated us. I thought maybe things could stay kind of the same, in a way. But then the time between phones calls became longer and longer. I came home less. Soon, we resorted to emails as our main form of communication. And even then it wasn't as though we were _saying _anything.

At the time when Luke came into my life, I hadn't been home in two years. The idea of family has all but slipped from my mind. I'd forgotten what it feels like to connect so easily with another human being. Sure, I mean, I have friends. Good friends, even, people I could spend days and weeks with and never grow bored. People I can talk to about almost anything.

But sitting here, in the dimly lit restaurant as waitresses and patrons bustle past, listening as he regales me with epics of his childhood, staring directly into Luke Laufeyson's bright and intelligent eyes, I don't think I've ever wanted to hear a voice so much in my entire life. I have never hung off of an individual's words, watched for the small gestures and expressions that accompany speech. Not being the type to sit back and listen, I've never had so much free dialogue.

And, in the middle of this steakhouse downtown, I know I am in love with being in Luke's presence. Maybe not him, so much. But his charisma and humor, the wit and drive just blows me away, and I am left at the end of the night thinking, _"How did I ever live without this?" _

**-XXX-**

**Reviews are always lovely. Please and thank you! Questions, comments, critiques, I take 'em all.**

**~Dania**


	14. Out of Oz

**My poor mentor has been waiting for my letter all week because I've been so distracted by writing this. Poor man. **

**Sorry, kiddos, about the Joseph suspense. All will be resolved.**

**-XXX-**

They come home high off of each others' company. Somehow, the young woman coaxes him on to the couch next to her, where they continue the conversation on evolution and social theory over warm mugs of tea. She brings it to him precisely how he prefers it, and smiles shyly over the lip of her mug when he proclaims it splendid, her delightful, and everything else in the world lovely.

He does not mean to charm her.

When he sends her off to bed after she falls asleep practically on top of him, Loki listens to her stumble up the stairs. He follows after treating himself to wine out of his empty mug. The reader is slung across her bed. She has undressed, and now wears a blue cotton shift. The god makes a decision-

He cannot stay here.

He has spent too much time shielding her, too little time building himself back up. Any longer with his reader, he will not be as strong as he once was. The power must be reared, reigned in. She is serving as a distraction. Loki craves space and time to extend his new ability.

Besides, every second here endanger him, her, and the blasted cat. Every second squandered gives SHIELD a sitting duck for a target. He could rather give them a soaring eagle, an ever-moving objective. There is no fun in playing chase, after all, if no one is running. He'll let the Avengers stretch their legs.

Now that he is restored Loki can leave bearing himself. He can use his own power to find safety, then vengeance. Let all of Asgard come. He'll not give up this potential throne- - - yet.

Loki leans against the white door of his reader's room, watching her chest rise and fall. The cat slinks past him, yellow eyes aggressive and protective toward his mistress. He settles in the crook of her bent arms, staring uneasily at the god who watches his lady.

Yes, he must go. And soon. If not for her, than himself.

"_I will come back to you."_

**-XXX-**

I wake slowly, a prickling sensation irritating my arm. Blindly, I swing, fingers curling into Win's fur. The cat's back is arched, his muscles rigid. I murmur, asking what troubles him and expecting no response. Which is why what I hear next startles me.

"Probably an intruder," someone suggests from the darkness.

I struggle to sit up, blinking rapidly, trying to clear my vision enough to discern the intruder in question. "Luke?"

He sits on the edge of my bed, looking perfectly content and not at all creepy. A contrast to the irate feline sitting protective on my chest. It makes for an odd scene. To my left, I see the red digital numbers spelling out the time. _3:25_

"I apologize, my dear," he says from the shadows in that oh-so-silky voice. "To wake you so. But I need to speak with you."

The dialect, I notice, has deepened. He sounds far less English than before.

All attempts to sit up are prevented by Winchester. Though I swat at him lightly, the cat refuses adamantly to alter his position. Unmoving, he stares at Luke with slits for eyes. On Luke's part, he ignores Win.

"What about?" I ask from my pillow. I shift, trying to cover myself- - -I am wearing a nightgown, after all. Win doesn't budge.

Luke's voice is low, delicate. "About you. And us."

With that, I sit up quickly, pulling an annoyed feline from my chest to drop him to the floor. Win simply hops back on the bed, curling in my lap, glaring. Well, as much as a cat can glare. I scratch him under the chin, hoping he'll find it in his heart to forgive me soon, else I won't have a bedmate for at least a week.

"Oh?" I ask, breathless.

He smiles faintly. "Tati, I thank you for being so good to me. You have saved my sorry life. And I've not yet repaid you. But I shall. Someday. I swear it."

_"Is this all?" _I wait, expecting him to go on. I am not disappointed.

"Which is why I must leave you."

I gape. _"What?" _

My tone must annoy him. Much like Win, he glares. "Leaving."

"Luke, that's ridiculous," I cry. "I mean, where the hell are you going to go? And what about-"

"My name isn't Luke, Tatiana," he says quietly, nearly spitting out his own name. A dark look comes over him then.

Scoffing, I shake my head. I cannot find anger within myself- - - -panic, at the thought of him going, rules every inch of me. "What is it, then? Frank? William? I can understand using a false name in your position. But that doesn't matter, in the grand scheme…. Are you only now trusting me? I thought we were better than this, Luke, or whatever the hell your name is."

"Loki."

It comes out a whisper, fierce and proud, daring me to argue in shock.

I reel back. Numbly, I stroke Win, who has tensed again.

"No," I whisper back. I've no clue why we're whispering in my house, but I push the question aside. "That's…silliness. I mean, he's….Stark said he is in Asgard."

The word sounds funny on my lips. I've no clue if Luke is referring to himself as the villain, but I automatically defend myself for the villain. Because, I mean, what kind of guy actually has the name _"Loki?" _The only person I'd ever heard with the name is the fellow Stark mentioned…the brother-god to Thor. The man who rained terror on New York.

God of Mischief. God of Asgard. A prince, if what Tony said was true.

Luke looks mildly surprised. "Then he lied. I fell. And apparently, I came here. To you."

_"I fell."_

My mind flashes to the jumper, the one they claimed was fallen rubble, or an alien at Stark Tower. That could've been him. It must've been him, if what this man claims is anywhere near truth. But how could that be? How could I have housed a god under my roof for almost a month without knowing? How was it I read to, held the hand of, and occasionally lusted after a _god? _An ancient Norse god?

Who is actually kind of an alien, now that I think about it.

At a loss, I stare into my lap.

"Do you not believe me?"

"How can I? It's completely crazy…"

One brow raised, as if to challenge me, he raises his hands, wrists exposed. The dark blue shirt and black trousers- - - when did he change?- - - -melts away, replaced by brown trousers covered by some leather-skirt thing, tight brown boots, a knee-length summer-coloured cloak (or maybe it is a cape, I'm not well-versed in Asgardian apparel), a silver-gold breast plate, and dark brown, high-collared shirt. I utter a low cry, pulling the duvet up to my chest. It's all too similar to the clothes I'd found him in. The medieval faire stuff.

_"I fell."_

"How did you do that?" I demand.

Humor lines his mouth. "Magic."

I stare. _"Magic…gods…fell to you…mischief…." _My mind is full. Quiet, pensive, I consider with a faint line of thought what I'd seen.

"Luke."

He shifts at the sound. "Tatiana, I have no means to hurt you."

"You're leaving," I accuse softly. "Why? Why did you even stay?"

Luke-Loki looks uncomfortable. "I was weak. Your presence was enough to give me a living strength. And I was-am-grateful to you for what you have done. But staying would be unwise, my dear." His lips quirk suddenly. "You shall be better off, anyhow. Winchester will be more at ease. Besides, I tire of you."

This last bit is a lash against me. I flinch openly.

"I don't understand."

"You don't need to," he snaps. "You mortals, always challenging. _Accept _what is occurring. It will only be easier on you. I am in your debt, Tatiana Deror, but I lose patience."

"But-"

A fist makes contact with the wood of the headboard, inches from my skull. I squeak as a second fist does the same to the opposite side. I find myself boxed in. The god has placed himself practically on top of me, knees on either side of my hips. His lips are at my ear, warm puffs of breath tickling my skin. I feel his nose in my hair, inhaling slowly.

Energy crackles in the air around us. Loki lets out a long breath.

"I do this for your sake," he grounds out. "Besides, you little fool, I was _never _yours for the keeping. You delude yourself thinking otherwise. Did you believe I was your pet?" The god- - - for I know now he is a god- - - sneers. "The poor coma-man, trapped in his own mind, alone with no one to care after him? No better than your cat?"

Where is Winchester? A sudden yowling from the hall catches my ear. Loki's doing, without a doubt. The door, I note, is closed. If Winnie were here, I have no doubt he'd be clawing the hell out of Loki.

"Why pretend?" I squirm beneath him. Internally, I am quaking like Jell-o on a rollercoaster.

"You think I could waltz in, god in all his glory?" He laughs, bitter. "Right, Tatiana. Your mortal mind would've melted within an hour."

Hurt might've flooded me before, but I'm currently in panic mode.

"Please." My voice is soft. "Please don't-don't-"

Don't what? Hurt me? Leave? I simply resort to shivering. I feel his nose in my hair, jaw against my cheek shifting (_"Nuzzling?") _before his pulls back to examine me. The god's face fades to an impassive mask. For what feels like an age, Loki gazes upon me without a word. Then, just as silent, he rises, and makes for the door.

I cannot let him go. Compelled, I call out.

"Loki," I croak.

At the sound of his true name, the god halts. His features are frozen.

"I…." My attempt is weak, feeble. "I'm so, so sorry. Whatever happened to you, up there. Whatever made you think you had to…I am sorry."

It isn't enough to make him stay. And, right now, I don't necessarily want him to. But it leaves a mark, nonetheless. He approaches the bed. One hand appears from the folds of his outfit. It skirts my skin, brushing my cheek. Weariness rises within me, my head instantaneously feeling heavy.

He says nothing, merely observes as I struggle to remain conscious.

_"I will come back to you," _a slight voice breathes in my head just before darkness descends. _"For you."_

**-XXX-**

He regrets scaring her. But it is necessary. After she closes her eyes, Loki slips his parting gift on her left middle finger, then prepares to leave. Before vanishing, however, he opens the bedroom door to the little hellcat that paces outside in the hall, anxious to aid his mistress.

Tatiana had apologized. For what? She had done nothing. It unsettles him, but Loki allows it to wander from his musings.

**-XXX-**

I wake with a splitting headache. No hangover can be compared to this. The morning light burns my skull, so I throw the duvet over my head. However, in the motion, my hand accidently hits my face. My cheekbone cracks with the contact. I yelp, pulling my head back up to glare at the offending hand.

On it, sitting on the middle finger, is a massive silver ring. The missing ring.

I gape. The green dragon-snake's eye winks at me from its setting, carelessly.

Loki had done this. Not some Kupka fan- - - which had been the conclusion Morrison reached. The painting is worth more than the jewelry. But we'd had it entirely wrong. This hadn't been a thief who'd gone in with the intentions of stealing the Kupka piece, then had seen the Norse pieces and made for them as well. This was a calculating person who had gone in with intention toward the Norse things, and had taken the painting to throw us off. Mask their real intent.

But why would he do that? He's a god. He probably goes around doing whatever the hell he wants all the time. Why would the consequences matter to him?

And, more importantly, why had he left me with the ring? It's incriminating. Besides, what use might I have for it?

Frustrated beyond belief, I rise. Washing my face and brushing my teeth helps somewhat. I eat a breakfast of coffee and sugar then return to bed. Win has curled up on the pillow, leaving enough space for my head. I lay down, head still hurting, willing sleep to come.

Stupid, over-confident, jerk gods.

**-XXX-**

By complete accident, about a week later, I forget to remove the ring before going to work. I don't realize this until too late, when I raise my hand to my face to scratch my hairline, right in front of Charlene. I freeze when she frowns suddenly.

_"Damnit." _Terror ices my insides. What excuses could I give?

She takes my hand without permission, raising it level to her eyes. "Nice polish. Is this shellac?"

I am mistaken- - - she's looking at my nails, not the ring. I withdrawal my hand. "Uh, no, it's Essie."

"Nice. What colour?"

"Trombone," I stutter. I twist the ring, testing the waters. I even take the heavy thing off, placing it on the desk between us. She doesn't look down, doesn't show any sign she's noticed.

_"Spelled to not be see," _a small voice suggests. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble so that I might wear this ring all the time, escaping notice that might get me into trouble.

After this, I never take it off.

**-XXX-**

Holcomb is the one who calls me. Her voice is flat with shock.

Joseph Walker was found in a roadside pond five miles north of the city, in his car. His neck was snapped on impact.

I sink against my kitchen counter onto the floor, phone in hand. My mouth cannot seem to close, gaping for breath and with shock of feeling, pain seeping into my cold core. Soon I feel the prick of tears in my eyes. Joseph. Dead. Sweet, funny, understanding Joseph, who I'd thoughtless rejected, under the impression I would be soon with the god who wrecked my life. Unable to breath, I twist my ring.

"And he- - - it was him?"

There is no denying it. Dr. Walker is dead. I am invited to the hospital memorial next Thursday. Numbly, I accept.

I am forced to wonder if it really was a car accident that did in the young man. A savage Norse god might've easily done away with my friend. Holcomb did say he had been on his way to see me. What if he had met with Loki before he'd realized I wasn't home. But, why would the god killed him? What had Joseph done?

We'll never know. I am forced to acknowledge this fact. Joseph's killer, if there is one, will never face justice.

For the next week, I mourn.

**-XXX-**

Luke, now Loki, has left me for unreachable places. And Joseph is even further away. Charlene forces me off for five days, and entire work week, once Marcy tells her my most recent bout of news. She doesn't even consult me, just tells me I have the week off. Ellen and Marcy can cover for me. "Go."

And I do. I go home, I drag myself into bed, and there I sleep for a good long time. When I wake, I feed Win, pet him for a bit, walk down the drive to fish my mail from the box, eat a bowl of cold cereal, and then remember how my life has gone to shit. I pass the doorway opposite mine in the hall, and every time it is a cold knife in my gut, causes me to collapse on the carpet of my room and cry or scream or howl like a three-year-old. The following four days basically repeat this.

Poor Win is utterly confused. I cannot blame him.

I don't know if this time alone to think is worse. Nothing but silence fills my house, and then thoughts jam my head. I am sealed into a circle of thought. Numb, I am dislocated from living.

When I emerge from this, I have come to terms with a few realizations.

There was no true betrayal without truth in the first place. I was never in love with Joseph. Luke never kissed me, never touched me beyond that dreadful morning. I might've broken Dr. Walker's heart. And Luke may have bruised mine.

Two men have utterly ruined me.

I thought once upon a time I was a strong person. A strong woman.

How does one move on? I muse, posing this question to my bedroom ceiling. I've had break-ups and fights, but the solution is beyond me. How do you carry on?

"Well, first you must try, I suppose_," _I say aloud.

_"I will come back to you. For you."_

For five days I mourn the passing of a friend and the loss of someone I still don't know how to feel about. When the sixth day comes, I rise with the sallow sun and decide it's time to live again. Properly.

**-XXX-**

**I am sorry, m'dears. I know there were some Joseph fans out there. But I think reviewing might help to get your pain out...eh?**

**One other note: Thor said, at the end of his movie, "I will come back for you." As BlueBirdBlues pointed out in her two-part Loki-OC bit (can't remember the name, but I highly recommend it), it is a very-Thor thing to say. And, knowing Loki, probably a Loki thing, too, which is why I have him saying both "to" and "for." Thoughts?**

**Thank you very much!**

**~Dania **


	15. And Into the Woods

**And Into The Woods**

**This goes out to KL, who has flattered me beyond belief. **

**The title of the last chapter is a blatant reference to the last book of The Wicked Years, which the musical Wicked was based off of. For those of you that have read it, I saw paralllels in the unexpected reveal of one you love, and then the whole gettin' out of Dodge scenario. **

**If you have not read any of the Wicked Years, may I highly recommend them to you? They're a little graphic and dark at points, but the light humor, and general know-it-all, of-course-that's-how-it-goes tone is simply breathtaking. **

**As for this title, it's in relation to the musical. As stated in the general philosophy, we're all got to go "into the woods" sometimes, and not let our pasts hold us back from entering deeper, darker places. **

**Basically it's a giant metaphor that I won't care to explain unless you ask. **

**-XXX-**

A month passes.

Then another.

It goes by slowly. My days are once again filled with tours, appeasing Charlene (and Win, for that matter), and evenings of silence. The weeks run together, a blur of activity, then quiet. Just as before. When it had all been enough. Before my life was subtly invaded. Consumed by a being I would never truly know.

Though I'll never say so aloud, I miss our conversations. I miss his superior little smirks (and wiping them off of his face with a few well-chosen words). I miss coming home to a house with noise. Not big noises, just…noise.

Charlene notices the change. Somehow, she comes to understand it isn't merely the death of a friend that has brought me so close to the edge of angst. She brings me coffee one morning, slipping into my office to sit in one of my standard client chairs. Her keen eyes watch me sipping the coffee slowly, purposefully, before asking bluntly what was "stuck up my ass." I nearly spew the hot black beverage across my desk. "Excuse me?"

"You've clearly got a problem in your pickle," says my boss. "Anyone can tell. You're…moody."

To put it lightly. Last week, I nearly bit a tourist head off when they snottily asked what made me qualified to compare Picasso's blue period to his later cubism work. I suggested, equally snotty, that they attend six years of university and get their own damn degree, then I'd consider debating them. Luckily, Ellen was in earshot, and ushered me away before taking over the group herself, several member of which were snickering quietly in the background. I was self-confined to my office for the rest of the day.

Which was fine. Great, actually. I mean, I had a lot of paperwork. Stuff to catch up on. I didn't even miss my three o'clock a bit.

"I'm fine," I insist. "Just been a little- - - -a little distracted lately. And I don't even know what a pickle is."

Twisting my ring, as I apt to do when lying or am generally irritated, I look back to my computer. There is an auction Charlene asked I research to see if there is anything worth considering. I'm about an hour behind. My distraction…practically a gloom cloud.

Charlene's cough stills my fingers against the keyboard. "You're wrong there, sweetie. So, tell me what's up?"

I turn back to her, eyebrows rising. She rolls her eyes heavily.

"One therapy session, and you can get back to work, okay?"

"As the boss, shouldn't you be making sure I focus on my work?" I point out.

She grins. "That's exactly what I'm doing, actually. So, spill."

"A guy I'd gone on two dates with died right after I told him we couldn't work out. And right before he went, I thought, well, maybe I was wrong."

This earns her sympathy, but I am urged to go on.

"Luke left," I tell her wearily, taking another drag from the Styrofoam cup. "I don't know why. It was sudden. And, as you can tell, it's been bothering me."

She clucks, sympathetic. "That is too bad. He was good for you, sweetie. But…that is the way things go. You can only hope he'll get out of his dumb slump, or find a better model." Grinning wickedly, she says, "Though, that one was particularly fine. Even with all of those clothes, you could tell he had a nice, uh, set of-"

I cut her off, slightly grossed out. "Right. Well, thank you. This has been most helpful. No more mood swings. Got it."

She leaves, cackling.

**-XXX-**

They pick me up on my way to the parking garage. There is no warning, no speeches, no preemptive motions to muffle my screams. I am grabbed and yanked into the SUV, a pair of handcuffs snap onto my wrists while I flail about miserably, howling. A gag is stuff into my open mouth and tied, but it's no use. I am not about to hold still. Grimly, one of the sunglassed-men (though it's about six, with the sun sinking into the horizon) opens a metal briefcase, withdrawing a vial and syringe. I struggle against my bindings. Had I been able to, I would've shrieked.

The syringe goes into my arm, which is exposed by one of the two men holding me down. He has rolled up the sleeve of my jacket, nearly tearing the seams with his force. Cool metal pierces my skin. In seconds, I feel impossibly faint. And the world around me is claimed by a creeping mass of black.

**-XXX-**

My dreamings are of Jay. We're fishing. As kids, we used to fish a lot, at the lake on our 114 acre lot. The summer geese are on the water, and Jay is just reaching out, his flop of brown hair falling in his face, excitement of a puppy. "I can touch it, Tati!"

I tell him he cannot, and then recast my line. After less than a second on the glassy surface of the lake, the thin cord is tugged. I turn to Jay, smiling, eager to share with him my coming catch. But Jay is gone, leaving only ripples and a fair field with me. I call his name, and the scene melts.

All that I see now is white, white, white, expansive white. I stand in the midst of nothing for a while, then noise crashes upon me-oceans sounds. Waves hitting a gritty shore. Gulls. Children laughing. There is still while, but I taste salt and feel sun on my shoulders. I close my eyes. When I open them, there is a beach at twilight. Dusk, and no children, though I still can hear them. It is eerie.

I step out of the white and into sand. For what feels like an age, I absorb the scene. The sun sinks lazily, its reflection rippling on the waves like broken shards of stained glass, cut by black and purple lead.

When this fades from my view, twisting, there is a new place. I scarcely note the polished stone floors, flickering torches, and pillars with dark, shadowy cubby holes between them. The only thing discernible to my scrambled mind is the tall, cloaked man at the end of the corridor. He stands, silver staff in hand, armored noblely, face entirely impassive to me. His jade eyes are stone chips-blank and hidden to me.

With no consideration, I walk forward, stumbling from my haze. Though he doesn't move, the hall seems to extend, making every step push him further away from me.

"Luke."

He merely looks upon me, disinterested.

I try again. "Loki."

Finally I reach him. I reach up to brush his face. He flinches away from me. Stone again, though, in no time. A hand rises to catch my wrist. The staff is lifted as well, and Loki bears his teeth savagely. I pull away, knowing this is stupid, I am stupid, I've done so much wrong, and that I need to _go. _

I tug. "Let me go," I beg, my hand on his arm, desperate to yank my limb from his grab. And then it all comes out. Everything I've wanted to say to him. "Let me…stop! You great bastard. I can't even escape your stupid face here! You can't just come out as a god to someone and ditch them! Especially when…when…." Angry tears are suddenly trailing down my hot face, and my mouth feels like it's been coated in dust as I choke. "…people care about you, damnit."

His expression is unchanged. The staff comes down on me, surrounded by a bright blue light, and soon I am bathed in electric blue.

**-XXX-**

Later, I find myself in an interrogation chamber. It's as barren as the ones you might see in the movies. Only, there is a military-grade cot in the corner, on which I awake, water on the table, and it's not so terrible uncomfortable. The light is harsh, and I'm cold, but I've seen worse. On TV, that is. But it counts.

There is no apparent two-way glass, no windows at all, for that matter. I see no visible cameras-but that doesn't mean they aren't there. I know better. No way someone would go to all the trouble of snagging me in such a manner if they weren't also going to have me watched.

For a while I sit groggily on the cot, blinking slowly. Water finds its way into a cup in my hand, and I drink heavily, trying to wash the taste of sleep from my mouth. I have no idea how long I have been here, or how long they intend on keeping me. I don't even know who _"they" _are. However, I sense this has something to do with the god I housed for roughly a month.

Forty-five minutes pass before anyone comes for me. A small group enters all at once. I rise automatically, stance solid as I can make it.

I recognize all of them from the news. After the attack on New York, our saviors became pretty big deals in their own right. Icons, even. Figures of the American way. So, as they walk in I can name each and every one without issue.

Three of the six Avengers enter - - -the woman they call Black Widow, Dr. Bruce Banner, and Steve Rogers. My heart sinks. No Tony. Thor's absence doesn't bother me; I've had enough of Asgardians right now. And the last Avenger, Hawkeye, is an unknown. I'm glad for the small numbers.

Nick Fury enters last, looming over me. He's really not much taller than I, but his sense of power is greater. I blink.

"Ms Deror," he says by way of greeting. "I am sorry about the circumstances of your arrival. My men said you gave them quite a run for their money."

I don't know if that is supposed to be some kind of joke, but I am not laughing. I'm not saying anything.

Bruce Banner steps up then. He's got a gentler hand than their leader and a slight quirk to his lips. He's got humor, then. "Why don't you sit?" he offers kindly, pulling out a chair. "We all need to talk, best to do so in comfort."

Under other circumstances, I might have cracked a slight smile. He reminds me of another doctor, I think sadly. One who was equally kind. "Yes, thank you."

All sit. The Widow's eyes track me with a painful intensity. Captain America looks slightly…lost, but he has a similar kind look in his eyes as Banner. I automatically like him. Judging from his body position, the others look to him as a kind-of leader. More so than eye-patch man.

I knew that kinesics class was going to come in handy- - - even if it wasn't related to my major.

"This is the Agent Romanoff, Rogers, and Dr. Banner," Nick says. " Member of the Avenger Initiative. I am Nicholas Fury, director of SHIELD. And you, Ms Deror, have some very intriguing information for us."

I stare, face hopefully blank. "Do I, now?"

Sensing my tone, the director tightens his fist. He reminds me of Charlene. Easily infuriated when he sees he isn't getting his way. Sighing, he again apologizes for the whole snag-and-drag thing that brought me to them.

"We've been left with the impression that the Asgardian Prince Loki took up residence with you a little over three months ago. Any details you'd be willing to share with us would be helpful." Steve leans forward now, his bright blue eyes hopeful. "Do you remember anything?"

"Um..."

"It may seem blurry," Banner tells me softly. "But can you recall him at all? How you let him in, maybe?"

Did they think I was stunned into letting the guy into my house? Frowning, I shake my head. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" Natasha speaks. Her tone is short, clipped. Professional "_get-on-with-it-you're-wasting-my-oh-so-precious-time._"

Something unpleasant rises within me. "It was like I invited him into my home without know what he was," I say icily. "He was just a John Doe at the hospital. Completely alone. I felt bad."

Fury frowns, deep lines etching into his scarred face. "You had no notion of who you were opening your house to?"

"No. None."

"And you were not...charmed, perhaps, into giving him room and board."

"If I was, it's news to me."

This seems to stop them short.

Banner picks up the questions from there. "Ms Deror. Did he…." The doctor hesitates. "Hurt you, in any way? Using his powers, maybe?"

I think back to the headboard. The wood is still marked by his fists. "No. Never. He…never showed any sign of violence."

Fury snorts. Banner shoots him a look of caution before turning back to me.

"He stole those things from your gallery," he says gently. "The ring, and the pendant. Do you know why?"

"Not really." I hesitate. "But he left me with this."

I lift my hand, pointing to the ring. To my relief, they all seem to be able to see it. Maybe purposeful indication or intent allows for people to see the weird ring. What else had Loki done to it.

Fury automatically asks to examine it. I don't feel the least bit inclined, but it seems to be smartest course of action to agree. I make to slide the band off- - - -but it doesn't yield. Stuck to my flesh, the snake-dragon-thing grins up at me, almost a reassuring taunt.

"It won't come off," I say dumbly. Fury takes my hand, without permission, giving it his own try. Then Natasha, and Steve. It doesn't budge. My finger begins to hurt, with all the tugging.

"Magic," Natasha say softly, logically. All agree.

Panic swells within me. "What do you mean?"

"He's probably spelled it so it won't come off of you for SHIELD. Or just not come off in general," Banner explains. "Have you been able to take it off."

"No." The lie comes easily. Maybe he's wearing off on me."I haven't really ever tried."

"Ms Deror," Fury rumbles. "Do you know where Loki Laufeyson is at this current time?"

So his surname really is Laufeyson. One truth, then.

"No," I repeat again, honestly this time. "I have no idea. He left…without telling me anything."

All SHIELD members exchange a glance. I hope my hurt isn't that apparent.

Fury asks, "If he contacts you, will you report back to us? Apprehending him will save lives."

He says this without a doubt.

"I want nothing more to do with him," I tell them.

The brow over Fury's eye patch rises. "But you will tell us?"

"How do I reach you?"

**-XXX-**

For three months, the god has been on his own.

It is easy, he observed, to live a secluded life in New York. A classy apartment is easy enough to find, food delivery simple, and walks can be very private things. New Yorkers aren't rude by any means, they're simply busy people trying to move about their day. Therefore, they're apt to leave you alone when you're wandering about the city.

He likes the city quite a bit. It's a bustling place, a good home for a prince.

Damaged building rise around him, hope rebuilding. This city will always rebuild-through flood, through fire, through attack. He admires the strength. Another reason to appreciate New York.

As the town buzzes around him, Loki takes his time exploring the nooks and crannies, observing daily life diligently, taking the time to comprehend the human process. His time with Tati had taught him a lot. But there are still things that were a mystery to the god. If he was to ever outshine is brother, Loki would have to rule his own people. And to do that, he would need to know them.

Loki spends most of his time exercising his newly-found powers. He thoroughly enjoys the task of learning again. He's bursting with ability.

The ring that connects him to Tati tells him when she wakes and when she sleeps. He can sense her motions throughout the day, from when she cries in the shower, to the moments she snaps at a patron of the gallery, or laughs with her friends. The latter is rarest.

For two months, he is comfortable. His brownstone suits him well. Though he has worked magic, the Avengers have yet to find him, and he lives happily enough. Schemes and vengeance-planning aside, the god is content.

**-XXX-**

Three months, it turns out, is just enough time for Thor to sniff him out.

He is in the park, sitting at a bench, observing the world around him, when he feels the familiar weight of a hand on his shoulder. The grip is unmistakable. _"Thor."_

The elder god turns him on the bench, blue eyes stern. "You've left me worried, Brother."

"Thor," he hisses. "I was beginning to think you'd never find me." Loki raises a hand, creating a barrier between the Asgardian princes and the mortals milling about. Across the pathway, mingled with the crowd, he sees the time-sleeper Steve Rogers, leaning against one lamp post.

"I thought you _dead," _says Thor, enraged. Loki can see real hurt in his brother's features. "Our parents mourn."

"Your parents," the god snaps. "Not mine. Never mine."

Thor doesn't accept this. "You are coming home. I cannot protect you here."

So, that was the story the Avengers had fed him.

"I don't need protection," the younger prince sneers.

With that, he flicks a finger to send the approaching Steve Rogers flying backward into the nearest bush. The hefty man lands with an audible _"snap" _as limbs break beneath his weigh. Then Loki rises, facing his elder brother. Thor has taken a defensive stance, hammer ready. The younger god could laugh. His brother is _nervous. _It is enough.

The god breaks his barrier, flinging his hand. He no longer has his staff, but a sword appears in his left hand, heavy against his arm. The suit he had previously been wearing disappears, replaced by his war attire, breastplate blazing in the sun. He feels _back. _God of Mischief once more.

Rogers has now risen, and is ready to fight. He is bleeding from his lip, but wipes at the cut with one massive hand, walking steadily toward the god. Thor surges upon his brother.

It has begun.

**-XXX-**

**I actually went to see Avengers last night/this morning. Even though I had to wake up for my volunteer job at 5 a.m., it was so worth it. Better the second time. **

**So...we've now see most of the Avengers...thoughts? **

**The reviews have been amazing! I'm so glad to have an ever-consistant group that is willing to give feedback. As always, questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I take 'em all.**


	16. Clash of Kings

**Watching Avengers again (going to shoot for 3 this week), I got a lot of inspiration. Can't wait to play with that.**

**I also publish a Frigga POV one shot recently, that will be in relation to later chapters of this. Check it! It's a persepective of Loki, snapshots of his childhood. At the moment, I'm working chapters 27, 29, 30. Fingers crossed! **

**-XXX-**

The rush of battle consumes him. With a moment of concentration, a sword appears in his left hand, weight perfectly, attunded to him. At times like this, he misses his spear-so convenient. He charges forward, clashing with Rogers and his brother. Now that he's focused, he senses another, Barton, the one they call the Hawk, perched upon, looking down upon them.

_"May as well give him a proper show."_

Sword play had been one of the only things physical he'd moderately surpassed Thor in. When they were children, the older boy was constantly seeking to duel Loki, wanting to challenge and beat the younger boy once and for all. While he occasionally bested the younger prince, Loki reigned superior overall. Odin approved, but didn't spare too much attention to his son whilst Thor maintained his skill in axe, hammer, and bow.

Thor was a better rider, as well, but Loki had a way with the creatures. The elder prince made them skittish. Loki's calm nature, quiet voice, always cooled the riled animals after Thor frightened them with his booming voice and demanding lead.

There are no horses to utilize now, but the god concentrates on the knowledge of his slim superiority over his brother. Every lash has anger, ribbon-thin and fierce, poison in his blood. Loathing fuels him far more than any breakfast ( even, as his human would say over her breakfast flakes, a "_breakfast of champions_"). His energy does not wane, even against two.

Around them, mortals flee, some crying, others shouting. They recognize the Avengers, if not Loki. In a short period of time, their battle ground is clear of people, leaving the three men to fight unhindered. Not, the god muses, that he would've been. The humans need a weeding out.

He managed to vanish from before Rogers, only to appear behind him, lashing out with a ball of pure energy. A red, white, and blue shield is dropped with a loud clang, bouncing away from the ruckus as if personally offended by the noise. The soldier is on the ground, laying on his stomach, then rolling to avoid the sword. Loki stalks across the expanse of grass toward the man, gritting his teeth as the soldier stands and thrust him out of the way as he met with a charging Thor- - - an opponent he'd much rather clash with for the moment.

The fight turns into a dance between three partners. Loki is consistantly defending himself against the soldier and the elder demi-god, ducking and twisting, leaping out of the way of the hammer and skidding to bend away from the blue fist of Captain America. His blood rushes at the pace of a legion of stallions- - -he has never been a warrior, but there is still a definite rush as he battles on. _"Let them come." _His blade is a second arm, practically an extension of him. Loki relishes every blow, every parry. Oh, he has missed the speed of this.

He knew living in a city with the newest SHIELD headquarters would one day prove dangerous. Pity- - - he has expected them a sooner. But at least he had expected them.

Steve's shield deflects most blows, but Thor doesn't rely on any armor. He spins and twists out of the way, his hammer occasionally redirecting a well-aimed slash. The prince is sliced across the cheek, and howls. Blood mingles with sweat as the other god surges on.

"Asgard will be safe for you. You will face trial, and then punishment, but you will be safe. Father would not hurt you," he labors as he ducks another blow.

Loki sneers, twisting to avoid his sibling's strike. Their dance is a vivid series of dodges and blows. He's quite enjoying himself. Blood aside. "Of course he would. He owes nothing to me."

"You're still his son, Loki."

He knows what they would do. He would endure a trial and a mild punishment before being accepted back into the community, with pity on the voices of all. How many knew of his origins? They would "care" for the misguided sorcerer prince. But it would be all for nothing. The incident would be forgotten. He would forever be the King's little brother. An advisor. Nothing more than a prince.

Oh, how he would loathe that life.

Steve comes down upon him- - - -Loki curses himself for the self-distraction - - -and the prince strikes sharply. The Captain barely avoids what would've been a nasty cut to his defined chest.

The god grins. He is formidable in his own right. With a smattering of concentration, he creates a field of clones, illusions to draw his opponents into a tizzy. It is an old trick, one he has used many, many times, but Thor still hasn't figured out any way around it.

All of the shades laugh, mocking. "Well, Brother?"

A grim expression claims Thor's features. "Stop the madness, Loki, before anymore are hurt."

"I've not taken a soul today."

The elder prince's lips tighten. "Your woman may not be dead, but even you cannot deny she is hurt. She has been hurt by you."

"_Tati." _His reader. He snarls. All of his shades follow suit. "I have no woman."

"Would she want you to rule her world so?" The soldier spoke up, deflecting a quick blow with his shield from one of the Lokis. "Or have you got her mind on ice like you did Barton?"

Loki hisses. "You know nothing of her."

"Actually," Steve Rogers stood to his full height, gazing at the god with crystaline eyes. "I met her a few weeks ago. Nice girl. Sharp as a tack. I just can't figure out why she's with you. Seems like someone that bright would know better. But then again, it is you."

The shades surge upon him. "And what do you know of I?" one asks.

"I know she's a far better person, and probably deserves a fellow with some more restraint."

Another bares his teeth. "Better I than you, man-out-of-time. Have you missed the world? Is it done moving past you yet?"

"Pathetic team your leaders have assembled for this little hunting party. The sleeping soldier and Asgardian monkey." The Lokis sneer. "But I suppose they couldn't spare anything better..."

Thor ignores this. "Just come with me. If you do not, the SHIELD will take you, and I cannot know that you will be protected. "

Loki, naturally refuses. Asgard is no longer a home to him. He tells Thor as much. All of his shades fizzle and dissolve, their master standing the center of the walkway. His hands rest at his side, eyes dark, mouth a tight line. He is very, very displeased. The fun is fading quickly.

Broken tree limbs, lamp posts, smashed benches and trashcans line the path. The battleground. Not a human in sight, but he can hear them on the edges, skittish. He can perceive the city surrounding them, quivering in anticipation. They've suffered too much over the last six months to not be overly wary. It strengthens the god. Steve and Thor have halted before him. He can feel the Hawk tense, tighten his bowstring in anticipation. During the fight he had maintained a bird's eye view of the happenings. He was back-up, nothing more. After all, they'd all see Loki's uncanny ability to sense and snatch arrows from the air.

The Asgardian prince is trying to reason with his sibling, his arms spread out wide, voice low and soft.

"There is nowhere you can go, Brother," Thor pleads.

_"Nowhere?" _But there is. A small house, tucked in the rural countryside of a larger city. Yellow, with a red door. White trim. Back, to his reader.

Yes. He will return. It is a vow he must make to himself, something he shan't break, must honor. _"Return to that house."_

He must now, anyways. If they know where he has been, who he has been with, Tatiana is in danger. Danger he put her in, stupidly thinking he could protect them even in his weakened state. SHIELD isn't so cruel as to hunt her down, but if they needed information…if they hadn't already….

They would go to her, he realized, if they have not already. Especially if he were caught. A bargaining chip. The Avengers as a collective may not stand it, the soft-hearted fools they were, but Nick Fury would have no qualms about holding an innocent girl over a captive's head. The man is as ruthless, cold-blooded, and calculating as the god Loki. He simply plays for another team.

If he, Loki, does not at least make it out of the ruckus and to Tatiana, she might needlessly suffer at the Avenger's hand. And his hand. Because of him.

The thing is, the god is attached. This is his human. His reader. And he isn't about to let anyone needlessly torment her (save himself). He would win, or find ground enough to depart from the fray. He would return to that house and to her, and then he would _hide. _The only reason he'd been found was because he finally decided to truly exercise his powers. _"It won't happen again." _

He hasn't scryed her, but the god knows Tatiana lives and breathes. Perhaps she isn't in the best state, but she is alive.

The damned Avengers came upon him once more.

"Come with me, Loki."

Hope rules over his elder brother. Just as it did the last time Thor found him. Alone, in that desert-land. When the others came.

"No," the younger god finally says, revealing his wide mouth of teeth. He plays at glee. No need to let them know if his fear. "I don't think so. Thank you, Thor, but I've other plans for the evening."

And with that, he was gone.

**-XXX-**

He wards his home against them, after bouncing through the world five times so as to confuse them. Back in New York, it is evening. The city is dim with night, the streetlights beginning to buzz on just as he lands on his stoop. He still wears the battle garb. Once inside, Loki casts up strong wards against being found. No one would approach the house without a purpose approved by him. The Avengers may search the city as the like, but they would find no trace of him.

They might not know he was living in the city. He still might be safe. For now. He doesn't want to stay longer than is smart, but he likes the house, likes the city, and wants to bring Tatiana someplace comfortable. This place is a sty in comparison to his place apartments in Asgard. He's not about to take her there, though.

With a sharp sigh, the god waves a hand to remove his garments. Sweat (though, not much blood, he notes with satisfaction) saturates his skin. He bathes, then magics his clothes to cleanliness. He shaves, deciding he is through with the excess hair. Once he is dressed, it is time. A once-over of the house meets with his approval. Which might hopefully lead to her approval. She had a fondness for simpler things- - -no gold leaf or hand-carved trim, crystal light fixtures, or polished brass. The house he has secured will suit her just fine.

She would not be happy. But, for the moment, that is no large concern. He fears too much that outside of his presence she is to be at risk. He would have her by him if that is what it takes to maintain safety. He owes her. Loki has a debt to her. And not a small one.

It is a bitter thought.

And then he is gone, away to that yellow house.

**-XXX-**

**This chapter is a little shorter. I'm not much of an action writer, sorry. **

**I must admit, it is a little disappointing to see an across-the-board average of 160 visitors with only about 5-8 reviews a chapter. Feedback would be glorious. Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I answer 'em all. Thoughts?**

**Loving the support so far, so excited to update...we've got a storm coming. And then some. **

**Oh, I love twisty-turns. **

**~Dania **


	17. To You

**To You**

**Okay, just to clear up the timeline a little (for myself, and I guess you guys too):**

** 1. Loki was unconscious for a month**

** 2. Lived with Tati for almost a month**

** 3. When SHIELD gets to her, he's been gone for almost two months. **

** 4. When Loki is attacked by Thor and Rogers, it's been three months since he left. **

** So, roughly 5 months total here. Almost a half-year. **

-**-XXXX-**

I've always enjoyed storms. Their rage and power strike with sheets of rain. It's pretty to see. On stormy day, I usually take the time to make myself a cup of something hot, then sit by a window and watch it pour.

We're into fall now, with most of the summer storms passed. But that particular bit of news appears to have passed the rains by, as on Saturday evening a massive one crops up out of nowhere. I've finished dinner, and stand in the living room, staring out of the window as the iron-coloured drops pelt the outdoors.

Winchester curls against my ankles, looking up to cry loudly as thunder shakes the house.

"It's just rain," I tell him. "Nothing major. Besides, I happen to like storms."

I leave to retrieve my mug from the kitchen, holding its warmth between my hands as I observe the chaos building outside. According to the radio, its noise wafting from the kitchen behind me, this was totally unexpected. The day hadn't been the slightest bit overcast, yet these dark clouds came out of thin air to rain hell upon us all. I sip my coffee, eyes flickering over the scene.

Leaves scatter from the trees - - -all the better, seeing as fall is upon us. One or two bright scraps of foliage past themselves to my window. Soon, it's coming down so hard all I can make out it shapes, but mostly a wet grayness that is rain.

And then, almost out of nothingness, a black shape emerging from the treeline. I squint. _"A bear?"_

It approaches, lumbering closer and closer through the downpour. I don't even think twice before pressing closer to the glass. One hand touches the cold surface, wiping off the mist. What could it possibly be? At this distance, I can make neither heads nor tails of it.

The figure moves through the landscape slowly. As it comes closer, I can make out colour- - - -brown, some black, and dark green. Silver winks in through the rain. I reel back. It's heading straight toward the house. _"What the hell?" _There is purpose in the measured gait. I take in the motion, marking the steps of a human, not any creature native to our wood. Thunder rolls ahead. Win tenses against my ankles. He's stopped winding between my limbs, and stares up into the window as I do. I stoop to reassure him.

"It's okay pretty boy," I murmur. "Just a storm, eh? And some creepy person-thing in the yard."

And then, from the foggy scene, more defined features become visible. It's clearly a thin person, made more solid with some kind of long jacket thing swirling around their ankles. The glass, beaded with water, masks other features, though. I strain to see some remarkable detail.

Lightening flares, lighting the yard. And then, around the mist, I realize. It isn't just any random person walking through my yard, stalking toward my window, scaring the crap out of my cat.

_"Loki."_

I drop my mug. It clatters to the floor, coffee soaking into the carpet. The mess I ignore, having only eyes for the god. My world shifts, its focus zeroing in on the sole, dark figure coming straight toward me. In seconds he is close enough make out properly. I can see the cloak, the heavy leather boots and skirt, the glittering, ethereal armor. Eyes rise to meet mine, leveling solidly.

Even with several yards and glass between us, I am affected. For almost three months, I have missed that gaze. A now, I'd give anything to make it disappear. To never see it again in all my days. My spine crackles with something akin to horror and doubt. I cannot move, only stare ahead, mind blazing with cold. For what feels like an age, our eyes are locked.

My knees buckle. The god steps forward.

And I run.

Win hisses as I bolt, though where it's toward my motion, or the guy making a quick approach to our house, I can't tell. I dart up the stairs, making for the bedroom, shutting myself in. In retrospect, this was not the best of plans.

I don't even make it that far, though. Because as I hit the landing, with another three steps ahead, the god materializes directly ahead of me. Less than five feet away, at the second-to-last step before the top.

Decked out in his Asgardian garb, looking down upon me, the god drips onto the carpet. He's damp, wet from the rain. Hair matted and stuck to the side of his face, he appears at least slightly less intimidating. His goatee and general facial hair is completely gone, giving his features an all-around sharper look. He is...young. Younger that I had assumed. One long cut, bloodied with half-clotted, bright red cells, is engraved across his cheek. It's just a grazed cheek, yet I feel compelled to reach out, to heal. My breath is ragged as I peer up, hands curling to fists. But I move backwards, my spine hitting the wall. I wince.

Loki descends, ignoring the yowls of Winchester, who is undoubtedly still pissed after their last encounter.

Without any consideration, I turn to flee back down the stairs. He meets me there, have transported himself with his usual vanishing act, carelessly throwing back his head to dispel some of the water running down his cheeks. Looking back, he passes me an _"oh-come-now" _look before walking up the stairs. I am trapped. The bastard. My wrists are soon in his grasp, and I yank away while he observes calmly.

"What the _hell _are _you _doing here?" I spit. My arms are beginning to tire.

"I was in the neighborhood."

"And you just decided to stop in?" I ask, incredulous. "What happened to the whole _'better off' _thing?"

Seriousness colours his tone. "I was wrong. We're going."

"We-"

In a moment, we're gone. Win's cries still ringing in my ears, I am blinded by an abrupt flash. Loki's grip on my wrists tightens painfully. I can feel myself being pull forcefully before the world settles around me again.

**-XXX-**

"Where is Winchester?" I ask dumbly, voice excruciatingly squeaky even to my ears. Of course. I'm kidnapped by some alien-god and my first concern is my cat. Naturally.

But Luke-Loki gives no sign that my voice pains him in any way. "I put him with Charlene. She will care for him."

Charlene has never indicated a tendency toward cats, so I cross my fingers she and my demon get along.

The relief that my cat is okay allows me to now experience concern over my own well-being. I appear to be in some kind of suit bedroom, or at least, a very well-appointed apartment bedroom. Scanning my gaze throughout the room, I note the small scattering of personal belongings-books, rumpled clothes, papers, and leaky fountain pens. This can't seriously be Luke's room-he's much too neat. But, given the way he is currently lounging on one of the over-stuffed armchairs, I doubt my own conclusion.

Shivering, I press closer to the wall. I twist my ring, as I am apt to do in times of stress. The eye winks at me. Reassurance. Loki's gaze sweeps me before settling on my eyes. A long moment passes as he examines whatever it is he finds in there.

"Tea, I think," he says in the softest of voices. "And something to settle your stomach. Now, come sit."

He has indicated the bed. I lurch forward.

"Don't faint or sick on me, girl," he warns.

I sit. When the back of my knees hit the bed, a vibrant purple throw appears around my shoulders, swaddling me. I pull the velvet closer. Loki looks me over once more before leaving the bedroom, satisfied. When he returns several minutes later, it is with tray in hand, bearing a silver teapot and small bowl. The bowl is a creamy sort of soup, the tea steaming, smelling of cloves and oranges. When I don't make for the food right away, the god glares in his "_come-now-Tatiana" _sort of way, and I spoon myself a few slurps.

When I've eaten enough to suit him, and adequately drunk, Loki relaxes. "I'm not sure how often humans need nourishment," he tells me. "But you looked famished."

I _had _been hungry. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." His eyes flit over my form. I look back, uncertain. My hand automatically goes to the ring, hidden in the folds of the blanket. I think it concealed, but his eyes automatically zero in on my movement. Nothing, it appears, is hidden to a god's eyes.

"You wear it," he observes. "Often."

It's not a question. I twist the jewelry. Loki barely suppresses a smile. For some reason, he is pleased.

"You like my gift?"

"I…it's not really my style."

"Oh? But it seems you've taken to it. And it to you."

"No," I say firmly. "I don't like bulky things. It's too big for my tastes."

He is impassive, almost-smile sliding from his face. "Yet you wear it."

"Yes," I say, not adding _"Because it's all I have left of you." _No need to let him know he'd been on my thoughts in the months between us. "Why did you give it to me? Didn't match?" I nod to the pendant nestled against the front of his shirt.

He has forgone the breastplate and heavy leather. For now, the god relaxes in a grey linen shirt and some heavier brown trousers, his boots laced up to his knees. The pendant rests in the v the neckline of his shirt creates, giving me a view of a creamy chest.

Loki snorts. "No. It was not a matter of accessorizing."

But he doesn't go on. I scowl. I am thusly ignored. Typical.

Loki leans back. I move the tray to the bench that foots the end of the bed. I am really tired, but I've no clue if the bed is mine for the taking, or even if I can sleep with the god present. So, I drape myself across the fine green brocade comforter, curling with the purple throw around me. Loki raises a brow. Ignoring him, I cuddle into the fabric.

"I have missed you."

I throw one eye open. Surely I hadn't heard him right. Loki isn't looking at me, but observes the wall as though there is something deeply interesting in the pattern of wallpaper. He speaks again, repeating. "I have missed you, Tatiana."

At that, I sit up. "I'm sorry, I thought I heard you say-"

He waves me off. "Yes. Yes, I said it."

"Wow." I am impressed. "You missed me."

"Well," he drawls. "Perhaps my heart longed for Winchester just a smidge more, but you know. Details."

I promptly hurl a pillow across the room. To my everlasting glee, it smacks him square in the face. Scowling, Loki moves his fingers in a circular motion, and I find myself bombarded with pillows. Far more pillows than had initially been on the bed, too. He's probably robbed the house of all the other pillows in residence. I shriek with laughter. Loki smirks as the squares of stuffing bounce to hit me. I toss as many as I can toward him, most of them being deflected lazily to come right back and smack me in the face. Or, on occasion, on the bum. I whip round, scandalized. The prince shakes with silent laughter, his eyes glittering. I pounce upon him, pillow in hand to knock the stuffing out of him. Somehow I manage to launch myself onto his lap, straddling the chair to strike him in the face mercilessly. His hair gets severely mussed, but he's laughing, peals of rich chortle filling the room.

Gradually, our fun ends. The plethora of pillows disappears. Loki leads me to bed, sternly telling me I need rest. I find myself dressed, quite suddenly in some sort of satin, overlayed with lawn. It's an agonizing scrap of clothing. I glare, loathing the flimsy thing, but he ignores me.

"Am I sleeping in here?" I ask. "This looks like your room."

"You're sleeping here," he grounds out. How easily I frustrate him. "No mind whose room it is. To bed."

Like a sullen child, I climb into the massive thing, throwing back the layers, and sinking into the depths. It doesn't take me long to settle.

**-XXX-**

I wake briefly, later on in the evening. A new weigh as been introduced to the mattress. I roll, my nose hitting warm flesh. In the darkness, there is a sigh, then a shifting feeling against the bed. A hand snakes beneath the covers to find my waist, spidery fingers spreading against my stomach. The scent of pine and rain greets me. _Loki. _Uncertain, I stay frozen. But he doesn't make a single noise, and moves no more. His breath evens out, deepens as he sinks into sleep.

Several awkward minutes pass before I give up and fall asleep too.

**-XXX-**

**We gots some fluff up in here! *party dance* Sorry...I couldn't resist. It just came forth from my fingers, and I went with it. **

**Has anyone noticed there is a lot of sleeping going on in this story? Like, legit REMs and snoring, etc? No one has passed out yet, too much...yet another trend of mine I'm seeking to finish.**

**Big thanks to all of my consistant readers and reviewers. You're the fuel to my creative fires (that's a little cliche), and I am so honored and grateful you've taken the time to encourage little ol' me. Hopefully I am not disappointing you. **

**Reviews! Please! **


	18. I Would Fly

**I Would Fly**

**-XXX-**

When he wakes, it's with Tatiana against his back, curled into him. He can feel her hands, clenched, in the middle of his back. Stretching, the god sits up. He examines himself briefly. He hadn't really consciously gone to bed. He feels the cut upon the taut skin of his cheek, wincing. It is sticky, tacky with crusted blood, and stings with even the slightest pressure.. Looking to the pillow, he finds brown-rust stains. With a few murmured words and the twist of his clever fingers, a shock of cold comes over that particular side of his face. He can feel cells regenerating at a rapid pace, and breaths in slowly as the flesh knits together again. There would be a slight scar if he did not soon apply salve. "_But perhaps another mark would not be so terrible."_ He has been battle-marked before. It is a hazard of being Prince Thor's brother. On the bed, Tatiana curls into herself, murmuring. He bends to brush back a few locks of her dark hair. She shivers, missing the extra body heat. Loki grins.

"Oh, Tatiana…if you don't rise soon, I shall be forced to order breakfast by myself…and the gods know I shan't be ordering coffee…."

The tease is light, gentle. Similar to the kind his parents shared. One he'd never dared to do if she were fully awake. The girl's constant need for caffeine is just short of crippling.

This has the intended effect. Deror unfurls, a flower in dawn light, her arms straining for a long moment before her eyes snap open, autumn orbs alert. With one arm supporting her, she props herself up against the pillows. In the morning's glare, her hair is a bronze, shiny like a new statue. Mouth parted, she takes in the scene.

_"She's forgotten," _he observes. _"In her sleep, what happened."_

"I need coffee," she stresses, looking up at the ceiling. "Else I'll be stuck in this enormously comfortable bed all day. Which would be a pity, seeing as you're got a helluva lot of explaining to do."

He rolls his eyes, and merrily makes with ruffling her hair. "You being in my bed all day is not such a bad thing," he muses wickedly. "Though, you're right. We have quite a lot to discuss."

Tatiana pouts. Pushing away his hands, she says, "Coffee. Before I fall back asleep.

He obliges her, leaving the room to find the rarely-used kitchen (he is no cook, and the city offers so many dining options it seemed foolish to stay in every night). Several minutes later, he returns bearing pastries and the requested coffee. Tati drains half the mug before speaking again properly.

"Where am I?"

He looks up briefly from buttering a croissant. "My house."

Eye brow rise. "Your house? You have a house?"

"Well, there is no deed or land title in my name, but yes. I have a house," he replies, slightly defensive.

"And where," Tatiana asks, stirring her coffee pensively. "Would this house be?"

At this, the god grins. _"My clever girl. Stubborn as Hel." _He takes a long moment to savor his pastry before answering. "Oh, somewhere East. Nowhere near your home."

Her nostrils flare. Glee rises in him. He doesn't so much enjoy making his human mad as he does watching her furious banter, and debating her playfully.

"New York," Loki finally says, disappointed to watch the steam dissipate. "In the city."

She looks mildly surprised. "Why New York? Seems a little…cosmopolitan for you. And I would've picture London, or someplace European. Home of your…people."

Loki snorts lightly. "They might worship us, my dear, but they were never my people. You Midgardians are your own lot."

"Midgardians," she says slowly. "And what would that make you?"

Hesitation before he replies. "Jotun."

"Oh." Again, surprise. "What is…Jotun?"

"People of the ice world," he says briefly. She means to inquire further, but he cuts her short. "You're not eating, my dear."

Scowling magnificently, Tatiana bites savagely into a Danish. Her partner smiles slyly.

**-XXX-**

He dismisses my questions.

Angry, I toss clothes and other things at him-incidentally, I'm dressing for the morning. If they're not caught, he deflects them (much as he did the pillows last night). But occasionally a lucky shot will make it through.

There is a fair selection of clothing for me in the closet, among an odd array of suits and medieval garb. I select a pair of tastefully worn jeans and a loose cotton blouse, scooping my hair up for a messy bun. When I emerge, the god looks me over keenly. He appears to approve- - - not that I need, nor care for his approval.

In the bright morning light, I can finally look him over properly. He's paler, several shades different from three months ago. His mouth is a tighter line, and there are crevasses branching out from the corners of those ice-coloured eyes. Not deep ones. But neither are they the result of merriment or laughter. Stress has marked him. Whatever has he been up to, besides terrorizing SHIELD with his AWOL status?

I am reminded of the covert organization with a twinge. They said contact them as soon as I received word. However, there isn't a phone in sight. And I don't feel too obliged to comply to their whims, especially following the whole kidnapping thing. Not, I recall, that Loki has done much better in my book.

"What have you been doing?" I try again. "And why are you in New York?"

"Big city," he says shortly. "Easy to get lost in."

My first question is ignored. I try another. "So…why am I here? Three months of silence, and all the sudden you pick me up again?"

He brushes imaginary lint from his knee. Today it's "mortal" clothing, suit and tie, sensible shoes. The heavy jacket rests on a nearby chair, scarf folded neatly on top. The stolen pendant glints against his crisp shirt. I eye it as he answers.

"Change of plans," he says. "It suddenly became more appealing to bring you here than endure a few more months of silence, though, I'm beginning to have second thoughts."

"So…I'm here as a bedwarmer and entertainment."

Loki flashes me a smile. "Of course not, my dear. You serve a much higher purpose."

"Which is…?"

Again, no answer. The subject is changes.

"You've taken to my parting gift. I suppose no one noticed it on you?"

"No, thankfully." I frown. "I still can't figure out why you left it with me. I mean, what if someone had noticed?"

"Oh, that would've never happen," he assures me. "And it was a measure of protection for both of us. Namely, you. But I reaped benefits too."

"Benefits as in…?"

Superior smirk set, he inclines his head, examining his nails. "Oh, nothing grand. They're connected, you know. Good source of energy transfers….they act as batteries to magic."

Now this is interesting. "So, I was holding a storehouse of power. You could draw from this-" I wiggle my fingers. "—when you were running low on juice."

"Very good," he nods, eyes still on his nails.

"But that doesn't explain why you gave it to me. Or my being here."

A heavy sigh. "I already told you that last night. And I thought 'protection' would make sense to your humble mortal mind, but it appears I am mistaken. Deduction, girl, is no one of your strongest traits."

**-XXX-**

I ask again over dinner. While pushing around my broiled potatoes (he seriously must have chef tucked away somewhere, no way could the God of Mischief cook so well), I bring it up casually. Why am I here?

He chews slowly, looking intently at his plate before swallowing, and then taking another bite. For a while I am patient, thinking perhaps he's thinking. But then I recognize that the Trickster simply did not want to answer. Frustration mounts in my throat. And, naturally, I ask again.

Loki doesn't _want _to hear it. Again, he brushes me off, but this time I am persistent.

"This is not fair. You can't just pluck me out of my life at your every whim and stick me in your damn house while you scheme to rule to world or get revenge or whatever." I sneer. "I know our mere mortal lives mean nothing to you, but I would appreciate some answers here, your royal highness."

There is a clatter, then a bang as his silverware is dropped to his plate, and the chair is thrust from the table. Loki rises, stalking around the curve of the table toward me. I watch, unblinking. He stops behind my chair, his hands going through the narrow slots in the back to caress the base of my skull, weaving long fingers in my hair. And then he pulls. Hard.

I manage a strangled yelp. Along with the hair-pulling he sends a shock of energy through every nerve, making my skin crackle. Loki forcefully tilts my head back until our eyes are level. One hand is extended to stroke my cheek. In a low voice, the same velvet he always uses when attempting to convince me of something, he say very, very quietly, "My love. My darling little twit. My foolish girl…. You've asked me this before. And I have _told _you what my rationale is. I need not tell you _anything_ if I so wished. Consider yourself fortunate…if there is additional information, then clearly I did not think it appropriate for you, my dear. So…I do hope you'll trust my judgment….my sweetest creature. I would loathe to think you didn't-" There is a sharp tug. My nerves are screaming. "-trust me."

The hand stills. His eyes are shards of slate-like ice. Cold. Grey. Unyielding. I shudder. Slight smile in place, he deems me comprehensive to his instruction. I am patted on the cheek, then released. For the reminder of the meal I sit, frozen and silent, more than a little shell-shocked.

**-XXX-**

A week goes by rather quickly. I'm not at first allowed to leave. Eventually, I coax him down enough for escorted trips outside of the apartment- - - -he has many things there for me, having prepared for my arrival, but there are a few items missing. A shopping trip is required. He pouts (as much as Loki can pout, anyways) as I mill about the pharmacist's aisles, browsing.

Our days follow a routine, much as before. We wake, argue briefly over breakfast. Loki disappears for a few hours to conduct some kind of business. In this time, I explore the house, read, and generally mope about. Our roles have definitely reversed. A lot of sleeping occurs in those first few days. He returns in the late afternoon. I present my case to be sent home. I am denied. Things are thrown. Dinner. An hour or two of reading, debate (or simply avoiding questions, in Loki's case), and then bed.

Though I've found two other bedrooms, both comfortably appointed, there has never been any suggestion that I sleep elsewhere. It is simply a topic that isn't approached. We share a bed. And not a word is said about it.

My job is another subject of argument. "How am I going to explain this to Charlene?" I wail the evening after I was first plucked from the yellow house. "I _love _that job, damnit, Loki, and if I lose it because of you and your insecurities-"

"You won't lose it," he cuts me off smoothly. "Along with your blasted feline, she received a very polite note from me explaining where you were. It will keep."

I am not so sure.

"For how long?" I demand. "How long are you planning on keeping me here?"

_"As long as necessary," _hangs in the air, though it's not spoken aloud. Loki raises a brow. Understanding crosses between us. I am forced to wonder how long, exactly, _"necessary" _might be defined as. But, as many things, an answer is long coming.

I manage to convince him I need to properly get out of the house. Walks are agreed to, but only in the evenings or mornings, never much further than the park, and I must always be wearing that blasted ring.

"It is ugly," I say bluntly. "And it's heavy."

Deadpan, the god informs me that the moment I remove the band from my finger, he will stalk me down and stuff the thing down my throat, so help him god, where I shan't be able to dislodge it, even if I try. Naturally, I attempt this within minutes of the threat, alone in the master bathroom.

He appears within seconds, impassive. Brushing off my half-finished protests, the ring is shoved back onto my fingers. He presses down hard on the metal, enough to hurt, and murmurs unintelligible chants. The metal glows briefly, and is hot against my skin. Scalding. I wrench my limb away.

Baring his teeth, he looms over me, grin as wicked as a serpent's. Nothing is said, but the parting message is clear.

Pleased, he turns and walks out.

The ring doesn't come off.

Walks are allowed. I've not been in New York in a long time, and usually only on business, so discovering my small corner of the city is a private joy. On occasion, Loki joins me. We're very quiet, too busy looking at the world around us to chat much. I come to know the pathways of the park, which alleys I ought to scurry past, the nicest carts to purchase coffee and bagels from. There is, I find, nothing like a New York bagel. Loki likes them well enough, but declares he'd much rather a muffin. The mere thought of the Trickster god having a preference for a fluffy blueberry-wheat pastry causes me to snort into my coffee. And, naturally, the god doesn't understand. I'm quick to find my scarf tripping me, skirts blown up by a wind that seems to affect no one else on the block, or coffee down my front, scalding.

The last one can usually be fixed if I reduce myself to begging. And if I purchase him a muffin, of course. Lemon poppyseed. Or, on occasion, strawberry walnut.

As a whole, our reunion is a violent as the storm he'd returned in. Thrust into an entirely new city, debating every day of the week, I wonder how I could manage even a year of this. But then again, I wonder how I've lived without it all my life. Loki is no prince, but he's probably the only man I'll ever want to live with again.

**-XXXX-**

**Awesome response, guys. Thank you for the support! Especially my usual crowd. It has been a rough week. These reviews are gold. More would be sweet too...just saying'...**

** I don't know if I've already mentioned it, but I recently posted a Frigga and Loki piece called Child of Mine that will later kinda figure into this story. **

**We are about to enter a storm, folks. Some very intriguing twists on the horizon. Looking forward to your reactions. **


	19. Scenario

**I did research on Norse clothing- - - most I yielded said the fabrics used are unknown or that they mostly wore wool and animal hide. I didn't stay accurate to this. Just keepin' you in the know.**

**-XXX-**

It's morning when I leave for my walk. Loki declined my offer, staying inside for breakfast. When I depart, he's attempting his tie - a rarity, for he often just tosses some magic on it - and his frustration is mounting. Laughing, I take the scrap of silk in hand and neatly finish the process, straightening the knot before stepping away. Well, making to step away. A pair of hands have found the small of my back, and I'm pressed closer, forced to look up.

There is a curious look in the god's eyes when he thanks me. Something akin to…wistfulness? I don't even know.

"You look nice," I say softly.

His smirk is slow coming. "Don't I always?"

I do not respond, choosing instead to stroke the silk, admiring the pattern. His expression is troubling me. Lately, a lot of his expressions have been confusing, to say the least.

"Going out?" he asks casually.

"Yes." I examine him. "And you? Business this morning?"

On days he stays in Loki typically wears comfortable Asgardian clothes. He never wears these things with ease, though. Always shifting about, plucking at hems and stray threads, rearranging various articles. I have the feeling throughout his life Loki has spent more time wearing formal court clothes than the linen and wool. The loose, drawstring trousers may look nice on him, but the god clearly prefers heavier threads. Such as the suit he's wearing right now, along with his wool coat and scarf.

"Would you not like to know?" he teases.

Of course. Never a straight answer. I pout, sticking my tongue out before leaving the room, a spring in my step.

I take my usual route to the park. Bright leaves drift down from the trees above. I smile, pulling my scarf tighter around my neck. It is a beautiful day. I miss the sprawling beauty of my own city, the expanse of nature and urban land together. New York is nice enough. I've not seen much of it yet, unfortunately. Loki has kept me on a very short leash.

As I walk the leaf-scattered paths of the park, I muse over the happenings of the last five months. Unless I am mistaken, my life has never been in more peril, nor has it ever felt so…right. Frustration rules my days, and I'm living with a person who is more annoying than my last four ex-boyfriends combined, and yet I am undeniably happy. Mind you, there are other emotions in the mix as well. But I am _happy_. Reasonably fulfilled. Somewhat at peace.

Glowing with my happiness, I become distracted in myself. Which is why, thirty minutes into my walk, I don't right away see the troop of black-suited men that keep cropping up. It's why when a pair of big hands seizes my forearms I am unready for a struggle. It is how I am shoved roughly into the back of a vehicle, and a black cotton bag, rough and unkind, is put over my head. Handcuffs, cold and solid, appear at my wrists. I am told, as the engine starts, to be a _good girl_ and _shut up_. That I should've realized this was coming. And that Nick Fury wants dearly to speak with me.

**-XXX-**

This time, it is not any interrogation room I find myself in. It's a conference room, with a big steel oval desk and six very unhappy Avengers seated around it. Even kind Dr. Banner looks displeased with me, though less so than the others. Tony merely appears annoyed. I feel annoyed, knowing my hair has been severely mussed by the bag. Wrists free of the cuffs, I place both hands on the table, and wait. Silence ensues. Uncomfortable and heavy. I mentally sigh.

Nick Fury enters, glowering. "You were supposed to contact us."

"Sorry, but the whole kidnapping scenario didn't exactly give me warm fuzzies toward SHIELD as a whole," I snarl. Under normal circumstances, I would be more than a little fightened. However, I'm not in the cowering mood today. Actually, I am pissed, and if this one-eyed bastard thinks he can intimidate me, he has another think coming. I blame this on Loki's influences. "And I had no means to, anyways."

Fury opens his mouth to retort.

"You have seen my brother," the big blonde says across him.

I look to Thor. "Yes. I have."

"How does he fare?" He sounds cautious, almost wary. It takes me a moment to realize this is Thor-the-big-brother who is speaking, not Thor-the-Avenger. _"He worries after Loki. Genuinely."_

"Well," I say honestly. "He is doing well."

Across the table, Bruce shifts uncomfortably. The Widow's eyes narrow at me, and what I assume is her counterpart, the stout one known as Hawkeye, lets his own gaze linger on me. It is known that I do not sit among friends. Except, perhaps Tony, who I can see regards Fury with no love.

He is next to speak. It's reassuring - not Tony's style, but appreciated.

"We don't want to take him from the city," the Iron Man begins conversationally, directing his bright, good-humored gaze toward me. "That could be potentially dangerous. Loki smash, and all that. We don't want the disturbance. But," he continues. "It's clear he wishes to stay here. We're willing to strike up a truce."

I frown. Loki really doesn't strike me as the truce type. "And if he isn't willing?"

Banner speaks now, dark eyes serious. "That's where you come in, Tatiana."

"Oh?"

Fury sinks into a chair at the head of the table. "You're the closest thing we have as a mediator between SHIELD and the God of Mischief. He wants nothing to do with Thor, and he won't talk to anyone else. You need to convince him a truce is in his best interests."

"And this truce," I say. "Will really be a truce? Not some kind of scheme to lure him back to Asgard?"

Fury nods, looking to Thor. Uncomfortable, the god says, "It will be a truce. My brother clearly does not wish to come home. We shall not force him. He's done no harm since his fall. All that we ask is that he stay in touch with SHIELD…as a human…what did you name it?"

"Probation," Stark fills in. "He'll be on probation."

I settle back in my set, folding my hands delicately on the cold tabletop. All wait.

"So, what you're saying is, it is too much trouble to try and bring Loki home," I begin, eyes on the ceiling. "So you're willing to keep him in New York - on probation. You want him under your eye, and who knows, he might prove useful. But no one can talk to him and tell him about this cease-fire, because every time one of you tries-and this is the part that is really confusing, excuse me - he's under the impression you're trying to stuff his ass on the next train to Asgard, exactly where he doesn't want to be since he figured out his entire life there was a constructed lie, if what he's hinted on our more touchy-feely conversations has any truth to it. Is that about right?"

The room is very, very quiet. I remove my gaze from the ceiling. Tony is suppressing a smile. Banner appears impressed, the Captain troubled, and the other occupants various degrees of annoyance. The entire room has feel of foreboding hanging about. Nick Fury is impassive.

Tony is first to speak, bringing a hand up to his chin. "So, these touchy-feely conversations! Any chance you might have them recorded, because I am in big need of a-"

Fury cuts him off shortly.

"That would be near the truth," he concedes. "But we have a condition or two. If he doesn't agree, Miss Deror, then I want you to go. Leave. We'll transport, if need be, away to a SHIELD safehouse. He is a dangerous being. If we cannot find a truce, it would be better if you were out of his presence."

"I don't know if I can agree to that," I say, brows raised.

"That's fine," he tells me. "Because if you don't go of your own motivations, we'll take you."

"Ah." The realization dawns._ "Stupid, stupid, stupid." _ Of course. "You're using me as a bargaining chip." I am on fire today.

"I wouldn't exactly use that terminology." Fury's lips curl. "Your safety is of an importance to us-"

"Because you think it is important to him." I want to laugh, but suppress the urge. "You'll find that you are wrong. I'm like a…housecat, or something. Entertainment, what he uses to alleviate boredom. He's got some attachment to me, but don't think anything of it. "

Tony laughs then. Loud and freely, with his head thrown back. He'd been getting tense at the words _"bargaining chip." _Turning to me, he says lightly, "I think you will find otherwise, Tati. He almost had a heartattack when Thor brought you up the last time we had an…encounter. I didn't think he could get any paler."

Thor looks sheepish - well, as sheepish as a god can be - saying, "He's never taken a woman before."

_"Whoa." _I don't want to think about what he means by _"taken." _Too many romance novel covers surface in my mind at that reference.

"Excuse me, but I am not, seriously _not_ his _'woman_.'"

Tony looks positively gleeful. "Of course not. But, let's get back to business, shall we? Tati," He looks to me, seriousness sliding into his features. Ever the businessman. "Will you help us?"

I hesitate.

Across the table, Bruce Banner leans forward. "Miss Deror. This is the best option for you both. Talk to Loki. See if you can't get him to agree. You're the only one he might speak with."

"I-" All faces are expectant. Even Fury appears intensely interested. "I'll do my best. But this whole grab-and-bag thing has got to stop. If you need to talk to me could we maybe take some more traditional routes? You can't maybe shoot me an email, or maybe one of those nice little picture-postcards dentist send, reminding you of check-ups? Maybe? The grabbing me in the park scenario is getting seriously old."

"Oh yes," Thor murmurs faintly, as the group rises to walk out, Tony at my elbow. "She is certainly my brother's woman."

"He's rubbing off on her," Stark explains, apologetic. "Come along, Tatiana."

**-XXX- **

Stark is kind enough to drive me back to the park after a late lunch downtown, with Banner in tow. By the time we exit the Tower (I am dismayed to find the hour-long drive in that wretched SUV took me to the Tower, and not further away) it's late afternoon. Tony takes us to a diner he knows and loves, ordering nothing but coffee and pie for himself. Banner orders sandwich, but I'm too shaken to order right away.

"Why…me?" I ask abruptly. Both men look up, startled, from their mugs. Silence had ruled since we stepped into the car together. My voice breaks this.

Banner exchanges a quick glance with Tony. "You'll have to ask Loki," he says simply.

"Yes, but he's not telling," I stress. "I've asked a thousand times why he's brought me here, why me, why he does he stay with me, why…everything. And now this…." I drift off.

Tony frowns. "You didn't come to New York yourself?"

"Did I come here looking for him? No. Besides," I snort. "Would I be wearing this-" I indicate the fawn-coloured boots and green velvet jacket I'd donned this morning. "-if I'd packed for myself?"

"Fair point," he says dryly.

Bruce sighs. "You're a good person," he says. "Compassionate. It would be hard for him not to drawn to you. He feels…abandoned. Through everything, you've stayed with him."

"Not always by choice."

The food arrives. I finally order a salad, then sit back to watch men eat. There is a comfort between them. Scientist and inventor. They fit, I think, quite nicely. Both men of the mind. And opposite enough to make sense. Gentle, shy Bruce, and the quick-witted, loud-mouth Tony. Each quirky in his own right. They catch me smiling. Both grin back, Tony lazily, Bruce with a low-key charm.

"I don't particularly like SHIELD," I tell them. "Especially not with this new deal. I cannot help it if Loki doesn't agree. So, why do I get '_taken_-'" I use air quotes here. "-if he is the one the whole thing applies to?"

Tony sits back. "It's insurance. They know he is bound to get angry once you disappear. They're hoping to use that anger as an excuse to send him back, or to force a truce on him."

"So…if he doesn't agree, they'll trick him back into Asgard? Tricking the Trickster?"

Bruce nods. "He will be treated fairly there," he assures me, swallowing a bite of sandwich. "According to Thor, his family is sick with worry over him, and the people as a whole like him okay. He'll be punished, yeah, but probably nothing worse than what we hand out here." He gestures, as if referring to America or the world as whole. "And he's a god, besides."

_"That doesn't mean it won't hurt any less." _I shake my head, fiddling with the nearby salt shaker.

"I don't know if I can talk him into it."

Bruce finds my hands, squeezing. "You need to try."

My salad arrives. Fingers sliding from Bruce's cool, calloused hand, I look down. There is a long pause, filled with the bustle of the dinner around us and the sound of the men chewing.

"I don't want him to get hurt," I whisper. "I really, really don't want that. But I know he'll tear this place apart if he does decide to come looking for me."

"He will," Tony says confidently. "And Tati, it's for his own good. We just want to make sure he's not scheming."

Oh, if only I knew. I cannot even tell them if he _is. _I mean, it's hard enough to convince him to inform me of where he's been just over th course of the day. For all I know, he could already be enacting some great plan for the Earth's demise. Just what is the stolen jewely set - his "batteries" - for, anyways?

I can only hope. Biting into a cherry tomato, I decide to push my fears aside - there will be plenty of time for worry and debate tonight. For now, I relax enough to enjoy the company of these two highly intelligent gentlemen. The science-y banter is quite…stimulating. I am reminded of myself on a tour - they pause to explain things every so often. It's comforting to hear other voices for the first time in a week or so.

**-XXX-**

By the time I am in front of the stoop, the street lights are flickering on, buzzing to life as the sun dunks beneath the horizon line. With any luck, Loki will not yet be home - which is, even I admit, unlikely. I open the door slowly, trying not to let my keys jingle. With great caution, I step inside, surveying the scene before me. The foyer, parlor, and stairs are empty. I hear not a sound.

Fully crossing the threshold, I turn to remove my hat and scarf, and I am just shrugging out of the velvet jacket when a small noise stops me. The sound of tapping.

Turning very, very slowly, I look to the stairs.

The god stands on the landing, fingers beating out a rhythm against the wood railing. There is a dangerous glint in his eye. I lose breath as he descends down slowly.

**-XXX-**

He came home in a fantastic mood. Positively beaming. All of his transactions today went well-he was another step closer to finding the Vinters, the last owners of his pendant. A lead had turned up well. It pointed him to Boston. A trip was in order.

Then he'd promptly realized Tati was missing. He didn't begin any searching, having a sneaking suspicion of her location. His connection to her ring told him clearly that she was alive, well, angry and nervous, but out of harm's way. This could only mean one thing - SHIELD.

Livid, the god raged about the house for a few hours, then put it all back with a wave of his hand. He has been moping around about the time she returns. He has sensed it, naturally, and was prepared. Gone is the Midgardian suit. He appears decked out in his battlewear.

Tatiana stands her ground, clearly still burning from her little chat with the Avengers earlier in the day.

"My dear half-wit," he fumes delicately. "It seems you've had quite an…enterprising day."

**-XXXX-**

**Ah, I just love the Avengers. Writing this chapter was great fun! What'd ya think? We've got a rather nifty comment box here now, so why don't you give it a good test run and submit a review? **


	20. Backlash

**Sorry for the delay. This week has been hell-5 a.m. to 1 a.m., not my usual routine. Eh. I'm catching up on sleep this week, though. Besides that, my Toshiba has been bitchy, but I've got my Pro in the mail. I basically orgasmed when my mom told me. So yeah. **

** Hope you enjoy!**

**-XXX-**

"If this is the hazard of living with you," she says breathlessly. "Then I think I want to move. I thought I was free of this."

Oh, but he's not about to let that happen. He is not entirely sure what "this" means, exactly, but he knows that moving -_ "There is nowhere you could hide from them, from me, nowhere you could run..." - _solves nothing.

"What happened?" He isn't yelling, not yet. Best to treat this with a gentle hand. She'll respond better. _"Besides," _the god thinks. _"She has been frightened enough for one day." _He has his suspicions on the motivation behind SHIELD's temporary kidnapping of his reader, but he wants to hear it aloud for himself.

"They took me." Tatiana has mustered up enough air now to spit. "To ask me questions. About you. SHIELD."

"Of course," he murmurs.

She is incredulous. "_'Of course?' _You expected this?"

"Not precisely, but go on."

The girl sighs. She approaches, sinking to the bottom step, sitting at his feet. In a muffled voice, she begins her narrative. He listens, impassive. All that she says doesn't surprise him. Of course they took her. Of course they would use the Avengers, even the familiar face of Stark to get the message across. He is not surprised by any of it. What does startle him is her reaction.

"-and they want to make a truce with you-"

There is a sniff.

Loki stops her. "Are you _crying?" _

Angrily, Tatiana tosses her head away, using long dark locks to hide her face. "Why shouldn't I? I was scared to death, Loki, that they weren't going to let me leave that damned tower. And the things they were saying about you…."

He shakes his head. "My dear, they are just words."

"Aren't they all?" Bitterness plays about her voice, sharpening her tone. Rising, Tatiana crosses the foyer, propping herself against the doorway to the parlor, back to him. For a moment, he lets her weep silently, then he steps down.

"What troubles you? Surely you were not so frightened."

Her back straightens, entire form rigid. Then, quietly: "Why have you brought me here? I've done nothing to help you, and I know you didn't just miss me." She turns, looking back with slightly red eyes. Otherwise, she is perfectly calm. "You're too calculating, Loki. There has to be some other reasoning behind my being here."

**-XXX-**

Tension rules the air. I'm frozen to the spot as he advances, sneer set on his pale lips. I never knew ice could burn, but his green-grey eyes are ablaze. He is angry. A fool might tell you differently, that he is being ruled by passion as cold hands go to clench my waist, but I know better. This is pure, raw, natural rage. And I'm at the receiving end of it.

I've asked exactly the wrong question.

"Tatiana," he breathes into my throat, where his lips hum against my skin. Teeth graze the tender flesh of my collar, and I feel myself jut forward, gasping. His voice, low and soft and so, so dangerous gentle, holds me to him, though his hands have fallen from my sides. I couldn't move, even if I wished to.

That kind of power scares me.

"What have I said about that question, my dear?" Another jerk forward as his nose skims my jawline. I know the trickster would smile, if he wasn't so focused. This isn't romance-it is solely a powerplay.

I stand my ground. "You _have _to tell me," I whisper referencing our conversation months ago. "You promised, remember?"

He laughs. "That was before…circumstances were made known to you. I'm a god. I don't have to abide by your rules."

"Not even promises?"

Loki ghosts one hand up my arm, the other traveling to my neck. My skull is pulled back by the shorthairs. I wince, biting my lip to prevent myself from screaming. He need not respond; the answer is clear. _Especially _not promises.

Gasping, I try again. "It-it can't hurt to tell me, can it?"

Abruptly, I am shoved away. My head snaps painfully back.

"Ah, you see, the very fact that you would suggest that informing you wouldn't _'hurt' _indicates to me that it very much would." He clucks his tongue. "I might've expected better from you, Tatiana."

I don't respond. Loki takes this chance to circle me, as a wolf might its prey. There is everything wolfy about Loki tonight.

His anger has not abated. If anything, it's grown. I watch, silent, as he paces.

"I would have you by my side," he rages, eyes smoldering. "Above all others. Protected. And yet…you question me. Your sympathies remain with the very forces that seek to annihilate me. I cannot help but wonder where your loyalties lie."

"Did I ever have a choice?" I shoot back. "No one has yet asked me what I want-"

"It doesn't-"

I cut across him. "Except, for maybe, the Avengers. Not SHIELD. Not the unit, just…" I think of gentle, reserved Banner, and Tony. They were the only two to care about my position as a person, rather than a tool against Loki. "…I want to help you."

"Then stay with me," he croons lowly.

"That's not how you're going to get help." I shake my head, even as he approaches. "I can't _do _anything, you know that. For whatever reason, they're under the impression I'm some kind of pawn."

He stops before me, pausing. "Pawn?"

"They want me to," I hesitate. "Go somewhere. But it's useless. You'll find me. I know you will. If you wanted, I mean."

Loki stares. "Of course. Of course I would find you. I will always find you."

The wording is ominous, and sends shivers through me. But it also warms me, a little.

"They want a truce. They want you to…communicate with them. Loki, we can stay right here if you talk to them, agree to a truce. They said…" I falter seeing his expression. "They said if you agreed to speak with them, find peaceful ground, than you don't have to go back to Asgard. Thor swore it. We could stay here."

"Lies," he hisses. "That you believed, my lovely little fool. I do hope they don't think to use you against me."

I take his wrists. "We can live hiding from them or not. It's your choice. Or else…."

"What?" Loki's eyes narrow.

"They will make me leave," I say in a rush. "Or something. Until you agree to talks."

"You would go with them?"

I snort. Humor is rather inappropriate, in the tone of the matter, but he's missing the point.

"My status a volunteer would be pretty null and void. I was told I could leave of my own will-or not."

Eyes hard, the god wrenches himself from my grasp. A look of deep consideration has claimed his features. I don't speak, letting him mull things over for himself. Finally, he speaks. "I will not speak to them-not yet."

I groan, turning to hit the wooden door frame with clenched fists. It hurts, but I pay no mind. "Why would you do such a bull-headed thing, you stubborn man? They are _giving _you a get-out-of-jail-free card! So take it!"

"You may be naïve enough to believe that," he sniffs. "But I am rather not. Oh, we will talk. On my terms."

"What better terms could you ask for?"

Carelessly, he shrugs. "Oh, I don't know. Location, time. Little things. I want to have the advantage, my dear-heart; in fact, I intend it. And as for you, well, you shan't be having anymore walks…at least not after the day after tomorrow. We must allow them to think all is as it was before. But I cannot allow them to pluck you so easily from me."

Incredulous, I blink. The god sails past me, intent on the kitchen. "How do you feel about Thai?"

**-XXX-**

He likes the spicy cuisine well enough, but it makes Tatiana ill. She glares at the offending red-and-white box as he sits, content to polish off the meal while his reader sulks in the corner of the couch.

She is unhappy - he knows this much. The plan he's set forth bothers her a great deal, and he can understand why. There is plenty of room for error. But he does not intend to allow a single thing to slip him by. A truce would be met on his ground. Eventually.

Though she is across the room, the god can feel waves of regret, fear, and anxiety rolling off of the young woman. She's attempted every kind of distraction; reading, talking, silence. Nothing has helped thus far. He wishes that he might erase the day from her mortal mind-more than once he felt the white-hot flash of fright from her, which he would never wish upon Tatiana. It is in his power, but he dare not attempt it without her permission. And humans are horridly picky about their memories. She would be angry, without a doubt.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he feels his own anger rise. How dare they think to take her. What business is it of theirs? She is no pawn in this war! Not, as Thor had said, _his_ woman. Even if she were, to use her is a weak, ineloquent tactic, one that even the slippery Loki cannot stand the thought of. Oh, his rage would be great if Tati were harmed in this mess.

This fight is between himself and the hired guns of SHIELD. No one else. Never mind the past. He is not about to let anything be caught in the crossfires. Let them come, anyhow.

Later in the evening, whilst settling into bed (the same one Tatiana sunk into an hour or so previous), the god thinks to observe his reader. Illuminating her with a small flickering ball he summons into the palm of his hand, he can trace tearstains and red cheeks. This displeases him severely. He doesn't wish to know the cause-though he will pretend it is those SHIELD buffoons. Pushing back a muss of dark hair, Loki presses a light kiss to the back of her neck, right at the base of her skull. Light swells there, fluttering at that point before dying down. She will have pleasant dreams, sweet, light, and lovely, and wake a beautifully as the dreams had come. It is the least he can do.

**-XXXX-**

**We see some cold, bitchy Loki here. *sigh* Lovely. **

**Whaddaya think? **


	21. Attack of the Suits

**Oh Loki! Freakin' out, left and right. But maybe he has a reason to be...**

**I'm not very nice to SHIELD in this particular story. They never struck me quite as the bullies they're portrayed as here. But they can be a little rude, right? I can't imagine what they're going to do without Phil's charm to smooth things over. Phil was awesome. **

**I've had a drop in reviews. C'mon guys, we've got a nifty box now! Five seconds to type and press a button! Please? Feedback is lovely! But on that note, I would like to thank my regular reviewers. They're gems, and I am very sorry for the slower response this last week - my life was in a bit of a tizzy. **

**-XXX-**

The next morn comes, fair and bright. Tatiana is slow to rise - he can already see the effects of his dream charm in place. Through her morning shower, she hums (off-key, but prettily nonetheless). By the time breakfast arrives, however, the effects are wearing, and her mind seems to dwell in darker places. The god ignores this.

He insists on accompanying her on the usually morning walk. This morning, he has a cane in hand. Her brows rise questioningly, but she doesn't ask. They circle the park in uncomfortable silence. Tati has never been one to fill quiet air with useful noise, so they've had plenty of silent moments between them that have been settled. Today she is unhappy, and he cannot (though he wishes to) pretend not to know why. He fills his lungs with crisp autumn air, sighing. Surely the silly girl trusts him enough to know he'd never willingly bring harm about her way.

Today he doesn't leave. No business, he intends on remaining in her presence as a silent rock of reassurance. But Tati has other plans. She escapes to one of the upstairs bedrooms, the one that might've been hers if he thought to sleep alone at night. All day she alternates been sleeping and reading. More than once he enters uninvited.

"Are you ill?" he demands.

From beneath the covers - "No."

He stood in the doorway for several moments, clutching the knob with a bruising force he'd prefer to apply to her wrists in the process of pulling information from the girl. Yet, this requires a velvet touch. Loki leaves before he does anything regretful.

A few hours later, in the breath of twilight, he returns to find her staring out the window. The city outside teams with life. She appears to be observing nothing in particular. Simply staring.

"What are you thinking on?" He slides behind her, resting his chin on her skull.

Faintly, she replies. "Dr. Walker."

The god promptly freezes. Tatiana shifts under him. He is still, but his partner is bubbling with unvented mourning.

"I just can't help but feel…." She drifts off.

"Did they find him, then?"

"Oh, yes," she says, distractedly. "Car accident. But it was just so…sudden."

The girl turns in his arms. Looking down at her, he can see that she knows - or at least suspects - his involvement in the matter. But she says nothing, merely calmly peers up. Soft, yet unyielding Tatiana. She knows of his sins, his wrongdoings. And she stays.

"A pity," he manages. Because it is a pity, truly, that the bloody doctor isn't here to see her choose _him. _"He was a good man, Tatiana."

"Yes," she repeats. It isn't an apology, by any means, but she seems to accept what is between the lines. And unspoken acknowledgement.

**-XXX-**

Roughly a week passes before Loki will leave the house alone again. I don't question his reluctance, rather, I stay out of his way, knowing restlessness is sure to follow. I'm right - over the course of three days alone, he single-handedly breaks at least fifteen teacups, sets a chair afire, causes the bathroom fixtures to dance, turns our sheets to snowy white, then red, then yellow, accidentally removes his facial hair (including eyebrows), and then wrecks the dining room when he thinks I'm not looking. Loki attempts a light-hearted attitude- but it comes and goes, flashed of brooding anger in between. He is nervous; a truce could, I suppose, not be ideal at this point in time. I've no idea what he is planning, but I figure it is nasty. Nasty enough for me to not want to ask. "_Deniability_," he keeps saying, _"Is the best defense."_

A defense I hope I shall never require.

When he finally decides to leave the house, it is with the strictest instructions that I am to stay indoors, not contacting anyone, and to not do anything foolish. I agree without hesitation, barely looking up from the novel I am engrossed in. He passes my chair with a sigh, pressing a kiss to my forehead before vanishing. This startles me. I drop the book to my lap. A laugh echoes through the room - Loki's parting gift.

For a few hours, I mope about. He cannot expect me to live like this for extended periods of time - I shall go mad. I miss work, and Win. When he returns, I think I shall bring up the topic of bringing Win here, or something. Maybe getting a TV? I plan the discussion out, mentally outlining all benefits of either course of action.

Around four o'clock, I start hearing cats. Well, a cat. A constant crying. I wonder if Loki is teasing me, or if somehow a feline escaped into our attic. Wandering through the house, I follow the noise, eventually discerning it's source to be the alley that sits alongside the Eastern side of the brownstone. With a frown, I peer out the window. Nothing.

Loki instructed me that if my foot so much as passed the threshold onto the stoop, he would hide every book on the property for the next fortnight, taking away my one source of entertainment. I'd scoffed. The cat is temptation enough to make my promises wane. But I hesitate before the door, fingers just brushing the handle. Is saving a kitten worth it? Hell, how do I even know if the thing needs saving? And is leaving safe?

A plethora of scenarios enter my mind, everything from Captian America blowing up the house, to attack-of-the-suits part III. My instincts tell me these notions are silliness.

_"Surely they wouldn't venture so near the house?"_

I comfort myself with the thought that they couldn't have given Loki less than a week to make up his mind. So I can't be in any danger.

Well, at least, not too much.

_"Coward," _I scold. Without second thoughts, I exit the house, making straight for the alley.

A yellow tabby sits in one corner, balled up and crying. I coo gently as I approach. "Poor baby. What are you doing out here on your own?"

I'm sure a city like New York has thousands of stray cats, but this one might very well belong to someone. I bent to kneel, offering my wiggling fingers, still cooing softly. After a little encouragement, the cat approaches, wary, to sniff my hand. Once deemed safe, it butts the limb with its small orange head. I oblige by scratching the thing behind the ears. Its fur is reasonably clean. No collar, but this kitty belonged to someone. I stoop to lift it. The cat disagrees briefly, grumbling, but accepts my arms readily enough.

"Aw, there's a good…kitty?" I frown. "Well, I guess we'll find out a gender later. Poor baby, you must be starving."

Loki surely couldn't deny the animal once it was cleaned up a bit, and in the house. I make to go back inside. In turning, my vision of the street beyond is impaired.

Impaired by the three men dressed in smart black suits, wearing dark sunglasses (though it's fairly overcast), and a stouter fellow - who I recognize as Hawkeye. I stumble backwards, clinging onto the disgruntled animal I now recognize as bait. Someone in SHIELD knows of my weakness toward cats.

"Miss Deror." Hawkeye is calm. I wonder who sent him on kidnapping duty. Seems like kind of an amateur job for an Avenger. Especially seeing as I'm not all armed and dangerous. "I take it Loki Laufeyson has failed to comply to the terms we discussed last week?"

I swallow. "I've no clue."

Hawkeye doesn't respond right away. He looks to the men on his left. "Secure the house."

Two of them depart. I can hear the front door opening. Wincing, I hug the squirming cat tighter to me. Hawkeye approaches. He eyes the cat.

"We'll let you inside for ten minutes to pack," he says, eyes holding mine seriously. "If you try to run, this will become significantly less calm of a situation. Do you understand? We're taking you to a safehouse. If you attempt to contact Loki, we'll ensure stricter measures on you. For now, you're going to simply be monitored."

I nod silently, biting my lip.

"If you would give the cat to Agent Ryle…"He motions to the other man. I deposit the cat into Ryle's arms. The thing settles, almost glaring at me.

"What-" I begin, but then stop myself.

Hawkeye gestures, inviting me to go on. Cheeks aflame, I ask what will happen to the cat.

"It's property of SHIELD Agent Romanoff."

The name isn't familiar. I nod. There is a faint crackle. Barton presses his ear piece, listening. I wait, looking down at my feet. _"Stupid, stupid, stupid….."_

"The house is clear," the Avenger says aloud, to no one specific. "You may go in, Miss Deror."

He accompanies me all the way to the bedroom, where I stuff the first things I touch in the closet and from the dresser in a duffle generously provided by SHIELD. Things like satin evening gowns go in the bag, but I'm too numb to care. Barton's expression is priceless, though, as he watches me stuff a cream-coloured nightgown, then a pair of tall red boots mechanically through the zippered abyss. Jeans, shorts, sweats (yet another thing I've forced the ever-formal god to purchase me), bras, panties, socks, blouses, skirts, tanks, tennis shoes, heels, jackets all go in. Coordination means nothing. I move on. Barton's expression turns to concern.

It takes me a moment to stop at the vanity and stuff in a few cosmetic items. My fingers lingering over the notepad sitting there. I glance up at the Avenger, my eyes wide. He frowns.

"He'll be getting correspondence from us."

"Please," I whisper. "I don't…he'll be so mad. And I don't want him to think…to think I went willingly."

"Excuse me, miss," Hawkeye responds gently. His blue eyes are clear, serious, intentful. "Then it sounds to me like this isn't a healthy interaction between the two of you. I would consider getting a new boyfriend."

I take breath to argue, then think better of it. No one has believed me before, no reason they will now. It wouldn't help, anyways.

I am driven from the brownstone in one of those massive military-grade SUVs. I watch from the window until we turn a corner, and the house disappears from view.

Hawkeye assures me I will be cared for. We'll be driving, he says. I may as well settle down to sleep. The SUV contains only him and one other guy, Ryle. Ryle drives, and Barton sits beside me in the back, the middle seat separating us. I am by no means comfortable, but I take his suggestion, and turn into the window, back to him. In no time, I am asleep.

**-XXX-**

**If he'd only listened...*sigh* **

**It would seem we've taken another twisty-turn, one that Mr Laufeyson isn't going to be too pleased about. Thoughts? **


	22. Threshold

**We're going to see things from Loki's POV here for a bit...**

**Many thanks to all of my reviewers! Your support is total fuel, and I could not be as inspired without you! Hoping this lives up to your expectations.**

**Quick note: I'm thinking this will be more along the lines of 34 chapters. The plot alterations just keep creeping up on me. Blame it on all of the Sif/Loki, and Banner stuff I've been browsing. Such as Mira-Jades Sif/Loki series, which I highly reccomend. **

**-XXX-**

The lead in Boston proved true. Loki stretches and grins at the news, pleased with his sources. But then he recalls Tatiana, and the threat against her, and he reconsiders. He needs to go, seek out the Vinters, yet he could not on a good conscience leave his reader unprotected. So, he waits.

Patients is one of his strengths, however, in this case he finds it difficult. Finally, the god decides one quick trip would not greatly endanger his home. He tells Tatiana the night before, as she drifts to sleep. She murmurs into her pillow. The god frowns. Her behavior over the last week has bothered him greatly - he fears illness, weakness, but a niggling thought in the back of his head tells him it is worry. Lethargy has claimed her. And he doesn't like it.

The next morning, he dresses carefully before coming downstairs. Tatiana slipped out earlier to make coffee. He finds her in the armchair in the parlor. He waits for her to notice him.

"You will not go outdoors. You will not contact a soul. And," he pauses for affect. "I do hope you don't attempt anything foolish in general, my dear."

Nose still in her book, she nods absently.

He stoops to become level with her, breathing, "If so much as a toe crosses that threshold, I will burnt every piece of text in this house. Understand?"

Another nod.

Let her be angry with him. She will come around.

Loki sighs. He presses a swift kiss to her brow before briskly sweeping from the room, transporting himself to Boston in a wink.

**-XXX-**

A pink-and-green Victorian beauty greets him. He recognizes the Painted Lady as the Vinters's familial home. His scryings have shown him much of this place, and the people within it. With a short smirk, the god advances down the raked gravel drive. He passes manicured bushes and trees, birds peering down on him every few feet. As Loki approaches the wide porch, the door opens. A stout woman with a rod-straight posture and iron-coloured hair, thin, pursed mouth, and navy dress, steps on to the porch. She stares down at the god, who pauses in his step.

"Mr Laufeyson." The voice emitted from the thin mouth is as cold as the colour of her hair, and just as hard as the metal it resembles. "I have excepted you for sometime."

"Oh?" He smiles briefly. "I do hope it is with great anticipation."

He meets her on the step. Unflinching, her gaze moves upwards. Without a word, she turns and moves inside. The god follows.

**-XXX-**

** "**Veridane Vinters," she says shortly, pouring tea into a pansy-patterned teacup. He accepts, nodding. The woman continues. "Though, most call me Veri. You may call me Mrs. Vinters, god-son."

He sips his tea. "You said you anticipated my arrival. Would you care to…indulge me, madam?" He smiles coldly. "I've spent a long time searching for you."

"I am flattered," she replies. "And I believe I know why you have come here." She gestures to his chest. "That trinket, if I am not mistaken."

An amber glow sparks in his chest, directly where the center stone of the pendant. He raises a brow.

"You possess a gift, I see."

She pulls back her knarled hand, smilingly slightly. "A modest one."

The god ducked and hand inside of his shirt, pulling forth the pendant. Nestled in his palm, it glows faintly.

"My husband's family was the one who owned the pieces. When he passed on, I donated the ring and the pendant to the museum - a ways away, but they were so grateful. A distance enough from me to keep the powers at bay."

"Were you ever able to use them?"

She chuckles. "Oh, no. I dabble, but I am not so skilled. As for my Richard…neither did he."

"But you know what they are for?"

Veridane nods. "We knew well enough. It was all from his family, you know, brought over through Ellis Island. There was a chief, somewhere in the line. The ring supposedly granted protection from supernatural forces, and with the pendant, worked to store energy. Very useful….they are a set, but never meant to stay together." She peers at him, a hawk examining a snake. "You already knew that, though. They work best apart. On two separate keepers. Say, a chieftain and his chieftess. A king and his queen."

"Yes, I knew."

"Which," she smiles widely, revealing a set of yellowed and brittle teeth. "Is why you do not wear the dragon ring. The god-son has a queen-in-waiting?"

He doesn't respond, but watches her.

"When they told me my donations had been taken, I had a notion of who might've wanted them. Your name has been vacant from the news, but I have a grandson who works for a few media outlets." Satisfied, she settles back in her chair. "He is a good boy."

The god runs one finger over the rim of his teacup, eyes on the brown brew. "I must ask…why would you give them away?"

She shifts, taking a long draft of tea. He examines the quiver in her veined hands. _"Scared. But playing brave." _

For a long moment, the elderly woman stares out the window beside her, folding her hands on her lap. Her stalk-straight form seems to wither and sag with each passing second, losing strength and conviction. She releases a half-breath - nearly a sigh, rueful and brief. The god waits.

"I am old. And tired. My husband knew more of these things than I. He told me how dangerous these items are…I did not want them in the house. A burden to my children. And I was right." She smoothes her skirts. "Had they not been away, I have no doubt you would be here now, seeking them. Dangerous."

"Yes," he agrees. "I suppose so. Would you like to tell me where your family's ancestors got these…as you call them, _'trinkets?'" _

"Oh," she waves a hand. The elegant elderly woman closes her eyes. "There was the old stories of gods and magic. But we weren't so quick to believe it. The sorcerers in the family used them, on occasion, but they fell out of use hundreds of years ago."

He nods slowly. "Thank you, madam."

Loki rose, setting down his cup. But she shifts suddenly, calling in a weary voice.

"Oh god-son. You and I both know those questions were not the sole reason for your visit here."

Smiling slightly, pausing before he faces her again, the god says lightly. "I don't know what you speak of, grandmother."

He can hear the rustle of skirts. Smell the musty floral perfume scattered on her navy dress. Discern the thud of her unhealthy heart. Taste a longing in her tone. He didn't wish it, now but she was making a request.

"God-son, I would beg you."

_"Might someone forgive me." _He sighs. There would be those that would be very, very angry if they knew. The god may be a trickster. But he was not so cruel. He could not deny an old woman in pain her release.

Turning slowly, Loki, God of Mischief, asks, "What ails you?"

"A hard heart," she says softly. "And too many years of living on this earth. Please."

He has never done this before. "Your family shall curse me."

She wave her hand again. "They shall not know. They will think I died taking my tea, the old woman alone in her big house."

"Very well." Inclining his head, the god approaches again. With his thumb, he presses into her forehead. The old woman gasps briefly, eyes flaring open wide. Then, she lets a little moan, and sinks back. Her eyes drift shut. Warmth escapes her solid little form. He feels a rush, then the room settles once more. It is done.

He leaves her in the chair, clearing away his set of tea things. She would be found, he suspects, by tomorrow at the latest. One this old is never alone long.

**-XXX-**

The god exits the Boston estates as calmly as he'd come. He takes to the countryside, sitting on a rock to observe the city. Once he is sure he has not been followed, Loki concentrates on New York. On home. He arrives just outside of the house, on the stoop.

All is quiet in the house. He frowns. _"Asleep again, Tatiana?" _he thinks wryly. Could she be so very bored? With a sigh (certainly not his first, nor his last for the day), Loki trudges upstairs. He is tired. Death makes him weary. If she sleeping, he may just come to bed with her. The gods know there is little left do be done today. An early night in would do them both good.

But Tatiana is not to be found anywhere upstairs. He returns to the ground floor, thinking that perhaps he missed her in the parlor or kitchen. She is not to be found there, wither. Focusing his slight claim upon her, Loki submerges his mind into the search. He cannot feel her in the house. He senses her, through the ring, but he cannot _feel _her. Fury rises to his throat. Had she been foolish enough to leave the house?

Back to the bedroom, he seeks her purse, shoes, or some other evidence that might tell him where she has gone. Now that he has a moment to examine the room as a whole, the god realizes something is very, very wrong. Clothing is missing. Almost half the closet. The drawers on the dresser are in varying states of array, half-open with clothes spilling from their depths. Shoes are missing, along with jackets and one of his scarves. Her things are gone. And so is Tati.

Of her own will? He cannot know. He suspects it, but SHIELD is just as likely.

More than half the house is destroyed in his sheer rage. Dishes broken, doors off hinges, clothes ripped, furniture thrown….

In an hour, he receives confirmation - a knock on the door. When he goes to answer, wrenching the door open, all that greets him is a slip of paper.

_"We're still open for negotiations." _

It is unsigned.

The other half of the brownstone does not fare nearly as well as the first.

**-XXX-**

**Poor old lady. I don't usually like to introduce, then kill, a character all in one chapter. But it needed to be done. **

**Thoughts? Reviews, comments, questions, critiques, I take 'em all. Apologies if my replies are late - I'll do my best to be quick, but life has a funny habit of getting in the way. **


	23. Fall Away Like Sand in Your Hand

**So last night I finished up chapter 32...I think we'll hit 34 total. It's a weird number. Eh. I'm hoping to finish up the writing before camp (14th-26th, but I should be able to make it to the labs to update at least every-so-often). **

**Quick thanks to all of my reviewers and readers - you guys are awesomesauce. Which is like apple sauce, only about twenty times better. Y'all are so nice to support me and this and...I don't even know what to say. But thanks. Thanks a lot. **

**-XXX-**

I've always liked the beach. When I was a kid we went all the time. My little brother often enjoyed the surf, but always whined terribly over the sand once we had left. Mom and Dad didn't seem to like it as much as we did - Mom usually lounged on her towel with our father beside her, both drenched in sunscreen, reading or sleeping. They would always attempt to coat us is SPF 15. I hated the vial-smelling stuff with a passion. Nothing brought me more pride than a well-earned summer tan and spray of brown freckles.

When I wake up to see seaside running alongside the horizon, I am alert. It's been years since I've seen ocean. My nose hits the glass as I lean forward, absorbing all that I see. I can practically smell the surf. Beside me, Barton chuckles. I turn to him, feeling something like a shred of joy for the first time all day. He passes me a Styrofoam cup. I sip, tasting lukewarm gas station Colombian brew. Not bad, but bitter. A thank-you slips out before I take another drink.

"We're almost there," Hawkeye informs me, his eyes on the road, ever-watchful. "Have yourself a nice nap?"

It occurs to me for the first time that Barton might not be such a bad guy. "Yeah, thanks. How long did I sleep?"

"About thirteen hours."

Long drive, then. Very long drive. I woke about two hours after we had left the city behind us, while Ryle was getting gas. Hawkeye escorted me into the station, stood outside the bathroom, then followed me up and down the aisles as I selected a coffee, a muffin and a fruit salad for myself. Back in the car, I questioned our mode of transportation.

"As a big government agency, doesn't SHIELD have, like, a ton of helicopters, or maybe a few jets? Why are we driving?"

Barton shrugged. "It's unexpected. And it gives us options. Easier to hide in the ground than the sky."

Ryle nodded in confirmation, the ever-silent component to the SHIELD philosophy.

From that point I was awake for another three hours, watching the nightscape pass by out window, before sinking again into sleep.

I'm stunned by my own ability to maintain a state of sleep for so long. Barton and Ryles must have worked very hard to keep me from waking.

"Where are we?" I yawn into my arm, settling against the car's seat once again. If anything could be said of SHIELD-issued cars they are very comfortable.

Barton doesn't answer, instead pulling out his phone to check the time, a text, or employ some other distraction. I roll my eyes, huffing and looking back out the window. Typical. Ryle glances in the rearview mirror, slightly grinning.

We pass a welcome sign. _Welcome Sebastian, Home of Pelican Island. Friendly People and Six Old Grouches. _I sigh. _"Florida?"_ Not my favourite state, by any the very least, it'll be warm. The October air of New York is chilling quickly with the approach of November. For several minutes we drive. I glance at the dash clock. The green digital numbers read _12:23. _

We eventually pull into a bungalow-styled two-level, painted in an eye-popping salmon and coral, right on the beach. There is a palm or two in the backyard, and just beyond the fence I can see the sparkle of ocean waters. Excitement, then guilt, rises in my throat. Of all the places to be a prisoner, these are pretty sweet digs. Barton lifts a hand to Ryle as we park. Both look to the lime-coloured door.

Seconds later the door opens to reveal a tanned Bruce Banner. He steps onto the pristine white porch, waving. He's wearing tan cargo shorts, a faded blue t-shirt, and sandals. I gape. Barton grins.

Banner comes up to the SUV, opening my passenger door and offering a hand to help me out. I'm still staring when my feet hit the pavement of the drive.

"You're the babysitter?"

He visibly winces. "I prefer the term 'guardian.'"

"He's monitoring you," Barton says firmly. Ryle steps up with my borrowed duffle in hand. I accept it. "You've got her from here?"

"Yeah, of course." Banner stuffs his hands into his pockets, nodding. "You catching a flight out?"

"Orlando," Ryle says in his baritone, slipping his sunglasses on after a quick shirt-polish. "Three o'clock."

"Good luck to you guys."

The men depart. I round on the doctor.

"How did you get stuck in this gig?" I demand.

Bruce shrugs. "I've been lacking work since I returned from India. And my SHIELD lab was feeling…stuffy."

"So, you take a pet-sitting job by the sea?" I raise a brow. "Sounds rather like a vacation to me."

He laughs, lifting his hands up, palms exposed. "You caught me."

He bends to pick up my bag, then ushers me inside. I am privy to a tour. The house is furnished in teak and steel, with bamboo-weave carpets, and glass everywhere. The coffee table in the center of the living room is basically a steel-and-glass fish tank, with smooth sea glass at the bottom. In the kitchen, the counters are all granite. The island is solid driftwood. The view from the shuttered window is to die from. It's all very lush, expensive. I raise my brows.

"Surely SHIELD didn't purchase this?" The utilitarian government style isn't reflected in this dwelling.

"No, that would be Tony. This is his…safehouse."

"Wow."

Wow is right. Every room it seems has some sort of quirky feature-like a fountain in the bathroom. Flat screen TVs everywhere. There is an in-house intercom system. A hot tube on the back patio. Mosaic tiles on the backsplash of the kitchen hand-set by the look of them, imported from Spain (working at a gallery gives me an eye for such things). The property butts the beach. I can run for maybe thirty seconds and hit water. My room features its own private balcony. I'm stunned by the luxury. Suddenly, it seems like a life of imprisonment won't be so bad for a least a little while.

Banner is polite. I find that I like him even more. After our tour, he suggests a swim before dinner.

"Suits are in the wardrobe," he adds before leaving my temporary bedroom. And he is right. At least a dozen, all my size, all with tags still on them, await me. I select a safe one-piece black halter, a white sarong, and pair of leather thongs before joining him on the surf. Banner relaxes easily around me, smiling over his Ray-Bans and leaning back to enjoy the afternoon sun.

It amazes me such a mild-mannered fellow could ever be the big, green fighting machine the media outlets portray the Hulk to be. Then again, that may very well be why his alter-ego is so savage.

"Tony Stark is a crazy man for not living here," I murmur, sinking onto the sand next to Banner.

"He's a busy man," the doctor explains. "Gotta let someone else appreciate the splendor. Some was going to send you to one of the Colorado cabins, but he stepped in and offered up his place. Nice of him." Bruce grins. "For both of us."

At dinner, we chat about all sorts of things. Mostly, Bruce's work as a scientist interests me, so we discuss gamma rays, and the like. I'm guessing he hasn't had anyone take a real interest in his work in a long time. The excitement in his eyes is infectious.

**-XXX-**

For almost a week, we develop a routine of waking late, eating brunch, bumming around the beach, eating a late lunch on the patio, spending yet more time on the beach, then settling in for a movie with dinner. It's a very casual thing - sometimes I forget I'm even being babysat. Bruce - as he instructed me on the first night to call him - is very easy to get along with. We're both nerds in our own right, so we rub along fine.

Then, the Saturday following my arrival, Steve Rogers appears to briefly replace Banner.

"Why," I ask loudly from the top of the stairs. "Do I need superheroes to babysit me? Is there some sort of universal rule saying all damsels in distress require a guy in tights to watch them whilst their god-roommates seek to hunt them down?"

"I'm not a superhero, ma'am," Steve says seriously. "And I've never worn tights a day in my life."

I scowl and march up the steps. Below, Steve casts a worried glance toward his roommate, who shrugs.

"She's frustrated," I hear Bruce say. "Now, what was this about the tesseract?"

Steve is just as interesting as Bruce, though reluctant to talk. He doesn't like the beach as much, and feels self-conscious in swim trunks. To my secret dismay, Captain America isn't keen on walking around shirtless (Not that Bruce was either, but then again, he wasn't nearly as cut). The two days we spend together are awkward at best, and while I come to like and respect this down-to-earth soldier, I am not surprised when a new guest arrives to take double-duty with him. The Black Widow, or Natasha, as Steve calls her.

Steve, on the other hands, calls me _"Miss Deror." _It's horrifying.

Natasha gives me a good scanning over once she enters the house. She's out of the skin-tight jump suit for once, but the skinny jeans and silk tank don't make me feel any less secure. Not that there is anyone here I wish to impress.

Four days pass with the two of them as my guardians. From what I can discern, the tesseract (whatever the hell that is, sounds like some kind of winged dinosaur) is acting up, and Bruce is one of the only people in the world who can even remotely handle it. Which is a pity. My new guardians are reluctant to even let me out of the house, and neither of them are big conversationalists. They hardly talk to one another, let alone me.

I don't know how Natasha spends the rest of her days, but a great deal of the average twelve hours are spent watching me eerily. The red-head is good at what she does. Steve, I fear, was scared off by my outburst at his arrival-he wants little to do with me, else I think he would be someone to talk with. But that isn't happening anytime soon.

In these days, I begin to miss my cat and my roommate (as there is no other title for him) terribly. I haven't seen Loki in almost two weeks. From the strained expressions on Steve and Natasha's faces when I occasionally think to eavesdrop (my sole source of entertainment out here), things aren't going well for SHIELD. And, as I'm still out here, I assume he has yet to agree to any truce.

The night Bruce returns, I do a full round of praise the Lord. Natasha leaves us that very night, but it seems Steve is here to stay. With Bruce around he is a little more agreeable. At least he likes Bruce.

"Why two all of the sudden?"

The doctor's mouth is a hard line. "SHIELD is experiencing difficulties with your boyfriend. He is in a relentless pursuit for you according to one of our junior directors…nearly crashed HQ earlier in the week. That's why you've got us as babysitters in the first place - any other agents would be ill-equipped to fend him off."

I decide not to ask how headquarters might be _"crashed." _That would just lead to more questions, I'm sure. "And SHIELD wants to keep its bargaining chip. Of course."

Across the room, Steve shakes his head. "It's not that simple."

I twist my ring. The gem twinkles, reassuring. "It never is."

**-XXX-**

**Sebastian Florida is a real place. I've never been there (I don't think, though I've spent several hours on that particular piece of coast), but I did research it. 19 hours and 4 minutes from NYC, according to Google Maps. **

**Next chapter features a very, very pissed-off Asgardian. Like, wrecking-SHIELD-HQ pissed.**

**Reviews would be lovely...please?**


	24. Burning, From the Sky

**As promised, Loki-the-d-bag!**

**I took to watching more of Tom's interviews on youtube. He as a rather nice grasp of the character's internal motivations. Some of his thoughts on it are different than mine, but it is nice to see that he's thought these things through. Actors should know their characters.**

**Thank you to all of my reviewers, especially the regs and the guest. Some of the guest review I would love to respond too! Y'all need to get accounts...or not be too lazy to not sign in? **

**-****XXX-**

SHIELD would never forget Loki Laufeyson.

As the God of Mischief he has to live up to his name. He is rather lucky, then, to have such a title. God of the Hearth, or God of Thunder just doesn't sound…fun.

He observes the Helicarrier through a scrying spell. Such a fragile thing…up in the air. Where anything might happen.

Prior to this little planning session, the god had taken over one SHIELD worker (they all had training in mind-control prevention, poor creatures, but they were never trained enough to face a sorcerer god) to do a once-over of the ship. Tatiana wasn't there - mercifully, for he would've torn the blasted thing apart. Though, he isn't likely to be any kinder now that it has been confirmed she isn't present.

He maintained control over the agent. Their rank was low, but they are helpful enough. At the moment, the young man was on deck. Maria Hill was piloting. Well.

_"Time for a little…turbulence…."_

He may not be a weather god as his brother, but with the Vinter pendant, he is a force to be reckoned with. Wind is no issue. Concentrating, focusing on what will make the vessel weakest, the god summons a storm big enough to rock the vessel. In a few minutes, the air has accumulated enough for an impact.

From his agent, he can feel the swell of fear on deck. Hill begins directing the crew, issuing sharp orders. There is a brief moment of chaos, then order resumes; they have been trained for things of this nature. With no hesitation, Maria Hill commands her people to circumvent the hardest part of the storm.

"_Ah-ah-ah. I've not even begun playing with you yet…can't back out when the game hasn't even started…."_

The Helicarrier rocks violently in his thrust of wind. The god laughs merrily at the vision of mortals tripping and tumbling on the command central. Maria herself clings to the pipe railing, still shouting above the creaks and clunks. The people scramble to fill her orders. But the ship trembles again, the opposite direction than before. Several tumble from their seats this time.

Somehow, Maria masters her vessel enough to navigate them from the eye of the storm. Loki isn't quite ready to give up his plaything yet. He flexes his fingers, hissing in anticipation. The god focuses his energies. Soon, the power rests at his very fingertips.

Another gust crashes into the ship. He can hear screams through his agent's ears. Perhaps one or two may be suffering broken limbs. The screams quiet to low moans and Hill's yelling. Loki, gleeful, sends them another quick burst, just to hear the cries again.

They had declared war. He was merely taking them up on their challenge.

Let the Avengers rue the day.

**-XXX-**

He'd thought to take some time to browse SHIELD's French unit for a brief period-it is, after all, Continental Europe's headquarters, sharing the duty with the Cardiff-London branch. Tati could fit in the European atmosphere. The god could easily envision her gracing the theaters of Stuttgart, or wandering aimlessly around the great museums of Paris. Of course, her handlers would not be at all likely to allow her to do such things. But it was a nicer thought.

On this instance, he decides to come in with a bang and glory. Once the smoke clears, he allows his more godly visage to surge forth. The helmet and armor gleams in the hazy light of the office. Sparks fly as he descends upon one agent - all electronics, computers, and wired devices are internally disintegrated as he passes - and the god halts, lips curled into a feral smile.

_"Qui est votre chef?"_

The man quakes like a leaf on a breezy autumn day. Autumn - the colour of Tati's eyes. Loki's eyes narrow, and when the fellow isn't quick enough in his answer, the god stoops to lift him by the throat. Panic surges in the Frenchman's eyes, and his makes a gargled moan.

"Where is your commander? Which one?" Loki demands again.

The sputtering man points as his eyes roll back in terror. The stout man he has singled out, dark-haired with a lean face and one long scar running temple-to-jaw, looks at Loki with hard eyes. He might've once been a field agent. His biceps are rocks, but there is a carefully gained flab about his waist. The god drops (or rather flings) the Frenchman to turn to his new prey.

"Ah. _I'homme en charge." _The smile increases dangerously. "Where might I find…her?"

With a flick of his wrist, an image appears in the air to his right. Tati, staring forlornly out of a window. The commander's eye flicker over the portrait. Then they return to Loki's cool face.

_"Je ne sais pas." _

The god shakes his head. "No. That would very much be a lie. You see, as a SHIELD commander, you would be privy to that sort of information."

"I do not know," the man insists in his native tongue.

Loki lunges forward, his nosetip mere centimeters from the commander's. "But you can look it up. _Passar a l'action. _I grow _impatient."_

The mortal doesn't move, merely looks at the god with dark, stone-like eyes. All in the office are hushed. He knows security has been called, but it will take them sometime to get through the barricaded doors - he had, after all, thought to summon a good deal of heavy furniture against the room's only entrance. Loki is relaxed. He will get what he desires, or people will pay for not helping him do so. It is a simple equation. One he shall relish.

Oh, let SHIELD burn….

"I do not have access… it is not from my division."

Loki snarls. He turns to whirl upon the group huddling against a cubical wall. Selecting a weeping blond, he looks to the commander. "Then what will it take to find the information? Her life? His? All of them…?"

The man is impassive. "It is _impossible."_

Loki's hand finds the roots of the woman's scalp and pulls, hard. She screams, faintly slumping. Against him, she shivers like a trapped rabbit. He can hear her heart. Pounding out a loud rhythm.

"Why don't we make ourselves a _traiter? _You attempt to find me what I want, and I shall not kill every last one of you?"

This last part is said in his deadly-calm voice, the one Tati straightens for. The one that has a hidden storm beneath the silken tones.

Slowly, the commander nods. He approaches the nearest computer. With the slightest tremor, his fingers pluck out the key words at Loki's instruction. Several seconds pass, files are shifted through, before the inevitable red seal appears - _Classè Secretè. _Classified.

Loki's hands clench. Baring his teeth in frustration, he places his hands on either side of the man's head, nearly a loving act, and gives a sharp twist. The snap it yields fills him with reassurance. Without a word, he is on his way, ignoring the cries and pleads of the other office workers. They are useless now.

**-XXX-**

When he succeeds in entering Stark Tower, Loki thinks he may have his break. He can feel her - barely. The Tower is muddled. She may very well be there.

He idly injures a few of the SHIELD agents milling about the tower's spacious floors. Cloak whipping about his ankles, the god rises to the top level, full in his power. He surveys the remodeled room coldly. That's when he encounters Pepper.

She's holding a full, unopened wine bottle by the neck over her head. A primitive weapon. The sight delights him so much, he spends several long seconds laughing at her. Pepper pauses, confused, but battle-ready. When Loki calms enough to speak, he sweeps into a bow.

"My lady," he says. "Do not strain those lovely wrists any further. I am seeking Stark, but seeing as he is not present, I wish only to impart a message on you."

Pepper Potts did not get to her position in life by stupid moves. Therefore, she wisely keeps her grip on the bottle. "Then impart."

Delicately, he circles the room, examining the developments since he personally tore apart this space. "Your Tony and his fellows hurt me very dearly by removing Tatiana from my care." He looks back to Ms. Potts from under his lashes. "I worry about her well-being."

Pepper is unsympathetic. "Then you should have taken the truce. Or never gotten involved with her at all. I find it hard to believe you could really care for her, and not open communication with us."

"Focusing on my own welfare should not suggest I _pretend_ to hold her in my regards."

She is unmoved. However, she sets the bottle on the bar, leaning her slim frame against the counter. Loki shakes his head.

"I need not prove anything to you. But know that I will continue to tear SHIELD to _bits _until I find her. Take my actions as you will - I see them for what they truly are worth, and I know she shall. It may be a message, of sorts, a stand against your people, however, that does not mean I will hold back in the least."

Seeing a still-unconvinced face, the god tosses up his hands in agrivation. "She will not be happy with me, to know I am doing this. You can tell your Avengers she did urge me to accept their bargains. She tried. They were mistaken in believing her words would make any differences - I am, as she would say, stubborn as a Sacs salesgirl. They were foolish. Just as I was a fool to think she would be able to properly listen to me." His smile is bitter. "She can't help not. And she may very well be happier away from my influence. But I cannot sleep, nor find any rest until I know she is…safe."

His admission is genuine. Heart-felt. _"I've not come this close to tears since Odin told me of my true blood," _he observes. _"Since I realized my Jotun kinship." _

This succeeds in stunning her slightly. Pepper's perfectly painted mouth parts slightly. "Oh…um, was that your message?"

The god grins. "If you would prefer something shorter…I merely wish to have what is mine returned."

Without another word, he sweeps around, shoulders set, cloak whipping about his ankles. _"One…two…three."_ But he takes pause when he hears a breath. Pepper has wandered forward slightly, uncertain.

"You…love her."

He looks back. "I do not know. Perhaps. But I should not think it matters, in the scheme of events."

"No, no, it makes all the difference. You love her," Ms. Potts says firmly. "Even if you don't want to realize it. Tony…." She hesitates, drifting off. Snapping back into shape like a rubber band, however, she smoothes the fabric of her skirt, speaking slowly. "Tony would do the same for me."

Loki inclines his head. "If that is your conclusion, madam. I'm afraid I must depart - Midgardian to hunt down, you see."

"Wait!" Pepper bites her lip. "They took her to one of Tony's safe houses. In Florida. If that narrows it down for you."

The look on his face is magnificent. To Pepper, it's as though someone told a kid the key to never having to go to school again. A vivid combination of relief and exhilaration. Then, confusion.

"You will do the right thing," she explains, answering the un-asked question. "For her. And if not, I'm sure Bruce will have the pleasure of kicking your sorry ass again. Tony still talks about how he wishes he might've seen it."

"Thank you," he says softly.

"Prove me right," Pepper responds. "And then you can thank me."

**-XXX-**

It's pretty clear when Nick Fury dismounts the elevator that he is very, very unhappy. Waves of anger roll off of him like humidity on a fourth of July parade. He stalks forward, stopping short of queen of Stark Tower.

"You let him in," the director seethes. "You let him in, and you failed to call _any _of us."

She bats unconcerned eyes. "We had an interesting chat."

"Chat?" Fury's glare is immeasurable. "You don't chat with the God of Mischief. You either are manipulated by him or you shoot him. Those are your options."

"No," she says calmly. "We spoke. And I didn't think I would need to request support if I was feeling comfortable in my own office. But he's gone now, anyways."

"Did he say anything of where he was going?"

_"It's lucky," _Pepper thought off-handedly, _"That he's missing an eye. Because this glare is already quite intense with one. I couldn't imagine it with two…that would be deadly." _

"Florida," she answers shortly, turning back to her paperwork. A giant fist slams the stack, impeding her ability to read over the environmental impact of jet constructions in New Mexico.

The SHIELD director roars. "FLORDIA? YOU SENT HIM-"

"I didn't send anyone," Pepper snaps. "I just think it isn't incredibly polite to kidnap significant others simply because their boyfriends are misbehaving. I never agreed to go along with this, and I don't know how anyone could. Forgive me, Director, but I am not one of your agents."

"That man is a danger to society as we-"

"That man," she informs him. "Is a guy just trying to get himself straightened out. She'll make him come around. You'll see."

"Potts, you have potentially unleashed our units to massive amounts of damage. Lives lost." He means to go on, but her raised brows halt him.

"As if you didn't open yourselves up to that when you took Tatiana." She shook her head. "Pin this on who you want, Director. But you were getting hit up long before he ever stormed my tower. Now, if you will excuse me, I've got a lot of paperwork to review."

Her short dismissal is further backed with a dark-eyed Tony Stark's comment that Fury ought not be distracting his CEO. The Iron Man appears through the open doors of the lift, which has arrived silently, allowing Tony to see the last part of the proceedings between the furious SHIELD director and his girlfriend. Amused, he had not yet intervened, knowing good and well that Pepper Potts can take care of her self ; handle an anger secret government services director, file paperwork, sign away stocks, and monitor three news outlets all at once.

"I've heard you misplaced a god, Director…."

**-XXX-**

**I enjoy showing the vastly different sides of Loki - the cray-cray, let-us-kill-a-Frenchman vs. putting-an-elderly-woman-out-of-her-misery. ****Personally, I felt like this chapter kicked-ass, and I mean that not in a way that strokes my ego. Loki kicked ass. *Sigh. **

**Questions, comments, critiques, I take 'em all! **


	25. Nightscapes and Nightmares

**So badass Loki seemed to go over well. Thanks for the reviews, guys. As always, the support is awesome. About 150 people read this regularly, and even the 6 regs a chapter yields is nice to see. **

**-XXX-**

"I like shrimp," I announce to the table as a whole. Neither fellow looks the least bit interested. I pop another in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully before saying, "The texture is hard to ignore, but aside from that-"

This is what I have been reduced to.

Bruce looks over the top of his quantum physics book. I get the message. Steve continues on his sandwich, staring at the surf. Over the last day both men have been distracted. Both have gotten increasingly tense. I don't pretend to know why, exactly, but I guess recently things with SHIELD have heated up - a lot. I never hear specific happenings any more, though.

We resume the meal in silence.

I'm picking at my fruit salad when a familiar noise breaks the sound of waves crashing against the shore and gulls. Like a torch flame starting up. We all look up instantly, recognizing the trademark noise of Iron Man. From across the perfectly blue skyline, the scarlet and yellow figure in bright armor appears to hover beside the patio. The gold mask slides back to reveal Tony, grim and fuming.

"He's coming," Stark says shortly. "Get her in lock down."

Steve rises. "When?"

"Does it look like I am the Loki D-Day countdown clock?" snaps the super hero, spreading his hands wide. "I don't know. I just know that he is - Fury called. It would appear someone inside SHIELD gave up the locale. He'll be here. How soon we have no idea, but better safe than sorry, huh? Get her on lock down!"

Banner turns to his partner. "You take her inside. I'll…the other guy will be waiting out here. Keep. Her. In. There."

My arm is suddenly in the steel grip of Steve Rogers, who is careful in hauling me to my feet. Leading me indoors, his face has turned to stone. As my mind has been in processing, I don't react right away. In fact, Tony is gone, a blip in the sky, when I finally tear myself from the Captain. I'm fairly certain he lets me do so, too. My back is to the wall, and his arms are iron bars on either side of me, caging me in quickly.

Eyes wide, I gape at him. "What will they do to him?"

"I don't know," Steve says quietly. "He's not exactly been kind to SHIELD lately."

Blindly, I duck to fling myself toward the nearest door. In a flash, Steve is there and I hit his very solid chest. Massive hands wrap around my wrists.

"Tati, you have _got _to stay in here. You heard what Bruce said. If he's about to blow any minute you don't want to be out there."

I strain uselessly against him, my entire body (which isn't tiny, by any means) pushing forward. "I can't let them - if he'll be hurt - _he'll listen to me. _Let me go, Steve!"

This was about the time Steve decided to lift me by the waist, hoisting me to his shoulder, and carry me from the door, heading toward the stairs. My fist pound into his back, meeting with solid muscle and an uncaring attitude. I sob aloud, hiccupping unattractively as I called for release. Blind, I frantically call out.

"No, Steve, I have to - they can't hurt him-damnit, he is just trying to…to…Steve, let me go, _let me go_…."

And so on. Once on the stairs, he stops in the middle to place me on the step above him, so we're eyelevel.

In a low voice, he says, "Whatever happens, whatever becomes of Loki, he will receive justice. If he seeks a truce, then no problem. But if he fights, Tatiana, no one can promise he'll make it out unscathed."

I'm no longer weeping, but blink tearily up at the Captain, comprehending his every word.

"This isn't _fair,_" I whisper bitterly. Big, warm hands go to cup my face.

"He has killed, Tati," he tells me soberly. "Fairness is…a luxury now for Loki."

My eyes flicker over his. I don't want to believe this. Licking my lips, tasting salt, I stare into Steve Roger's pure gaze, and make a decision. Taking not a second more for consideration, I duck beneath his arms and fly for the door. The bigger man stumbles down the stairs in an attempt to retrieve me. But I am too fast. I make it to the door before I can be stopped.

Banner stands just below the deck, on the sands, staring at the horizon as if expecting a tsunami. I halt just behind him. He turns, surprised.

"You gave Steve the slip," he accuses.

At that precise moment, the Captain appears at the sliding glass door. Bruce waves him off. Then he turns back to me.

"You don't want to be around for the other guy," he warns. "Go in, Tati."

"No!" I cry passionately, surging forward. "He will _listen _to me. Now he'll listen! I'll make him listen, just…please, don't. He isn't here to cause trouble, only to - to -"

The doctor is sympathetic. "We're not about to hurt anyone without cause, Tati."

"Yes, but he'll give you cause. Don't let him. He is just here for me. Let me go to him, and you'll have your truce. SHIELD will have their truce."

"I cannot let you do that." My forearms are grasped ruthlessly. Uncharacteristic of Bruce. "Steve, take her in. Please."

I sink to the sand, taking Bruce with me. My eyes feel frozen. The spot where the dragon-snake ring sits on my finger flares with ice briefly. I look to the sky, feeling senseless and weak. Thin streams of wispy cloud line the blue. I feel myself fall fully into the sand, my bare skin brushing the soft white grains. There I lay until the dull steps of the Captain approach. Gentle hands scoop me up, and like a rag doll I flop against the wide chest of Steve Rogers.

In silence I am carried upstairs and laid on the bed. Steve kindly removes my shoes and pulls the duvet out from beneath me, so that I am covered. He tells me he will be in the hall, keeping guard. For a moment, he pauses, a though expecting a response. I simply shiver.

**-XXX-**

I dream. My settling swirls in a blaze of colour and noise before settling on an expansive plane of golden stone pillars. In the world outside, I see a gleaming city, and mountains in the distance, a sky the colour of lakewater. It is all very beautiful. I wander the vast space before my attention is caught by a light clearing of the throat. I spin, finding nothing. Another cough. Again, not a soul. When I turn back, I find myself nose-to-chest with a figure that looms over me. I scramble backwards.

Humor setting the line of his mouth, Loki Laufeyson observes me comfortably from the few feet separating us. He closes this distance with languid step, observing me at his leisure.

I breathe out slowly. _"Loki."_

His smile only grows. "My dear half-wit. I fear we've been parted too long."

I don't even think, just fall into him with relief on every inch of my skin. Strong arms, the wiry muscles I've long admired, tighten around me. I inhale pine and rain and something new, like sandalwood and smoke. His cheek skims my jaw, cold breath tickling, the barest hint of skin contact teasing. Silly of me, but I sigh –- a slight, airy sound. Too girly for my tastes, but I push back these thoughts. Loki. Loki….

"This cannot be real," I murmur against his cheek.

The god straightens slightly, pulling back. "Oh, but Tatiana…if it were…."

My face crumples. "Am I dreaming?"

"I am on my way," he says, gentle and serious. "And I cannot think but for thoughts of you. I had to see you once, before I issued my challenge."

"Don't -"

"You are a worthy enough prize," he assures me. "Do not be foolish. Stay under their care. I will return to you."

"No." I come closer. "I will return to _you_."

He smiles faintly. Thin pale lips press together of an unwilling accord, as if he is not yet ready to display any contentedness. "I look forward to it."

Chastely, he presses a kiss to my forehead. And then, all that was melts away.

**-XXX-**

Even outside, Bruce can hear the wet sniffles of his charge. With an open window, and his own tuned-in senses, she could be in the next room. Or next to him on the deck. He might wish as much, the doctor thinks wryly. _"She would be too easy to fall in love with…."_

But he wouldn't dare. Not with a madder-than-a-bag-of-cats Asgardian prince having long ago claimed dibs. And Bruce can understand why – with wide eyes, a curious nature, and curvaceous form that could rivals Nat's, Tatiana Deror is something of a intellectual beauty. Not one to turn Tony Stark's head, necessarily, but lovely in a more classic way. She is softer, sweeter than Natasha or Pepper; not a super hero, or a business woman, but someone far more comfortable in her own skin. It is truly no wonder the Trickster God might've fallen for – or at least, saw fit to claim – the passionate curator.

Especially if he'd suffered harsh words in his life. Tati's compassion was just another attractive feature. Or, as she put it herself, her "broken doll syndrome." Apparently, Loki was not the first emotionally skewed fellow to make an entrance into her good graces.

Banner knows she's not his for the keeping – hell, he would be surprised if she was still here by the time the sun rose. Loki's bloody path toward her will make sure of that, if nothing else will – but for a brief moment he imagines a time without the princeling god, without SHIELD. And he tries to see himself meeting her as a normal person would. On the street. In a coffee shop. On the subway. And maybe not even her, but someone else, someone _right –_

Whatever the morning brings, she'll be latched onto Loki either way. With that thought firmly cemented in his mind, Bruce focuses on the sniffles and sobs echoing throughout the beach, and begins the long journey into night.

**-XXX-**

**Sunday I'll be leaving for camp. Hopefully I can update from there - I ought to have computer access. If not, then it'll be two dry weeks here...I am going to try to post 26 before then, probably Sunday morning. Anyway,s hope you guys have enjoyed this. **

**Oh, and I recently posted a Steve Rogers and Darcy Lewis piece. It's going to have a second chapter...sometime. It's not really slash, just sort of friendshippy. I like them both as people, but together is eh. Check it if you're interested. **


	26. For You

**For You**

**Awesome response, guys! **

**-XXX-**

Loki arrives near twilight, when the sea is cut by orange streaks of sky, melded with yellows and pinks. The water is ever-moving, swirling the colours around as an artist's pallet. He stands on the sand, observing the waves. For the first time in weeks, he feels her presence. She is weary, possibly asleep. Her mind is not the vivid awake he recognizes.

The red house. Though he does not see Banner, he can feel the beast-man. He closes his eyes, letting his consciousness seep into the structure. Up the stairs. There is the Captain. And through the door he guards, there she lies. Tatiana.

He approaches finally after fully observing the house and its protections.

According to his SHIELD agent, Thor was still in Asgard, waiting for news of his brother. His woman, the Jane Foster, is in Asgard now. He need not anticipate his elder brother.

Iron Man is on a goose chase. They had battled for nearly two hours before the God of Mischief tired of the activity. Loki has resorted to his old trick of mirrored images; his illusionary self was causing trouble up and down the coast. The god's lip curled at the thought. After Stark's chase, he would have earned that drink. Loki would be sure to oblige him-he owed the man's partner, anyway.

As for the other Avengers, the ones not set on the beach house, they were…taken care of. Loki had not thought of the benefits his attack on the Helicarrier might render. For the moment, Hawkeye and Widow were at the helm with Maria Hill, both at the ready. Oh, how delightful life could be when the fates dropped some unexpected advantage into your lap. Loki sighs. This will be cake.

His advance on the house does not go unnoticed. Dr. Bruce Banner stands before the deck. Hands stuffed in his pockets, the man doesn't look the least bit happy or battle-ready.

"Doctor," Loki sneers. "Last time we encountered one another, you were significantly…greener. "

Banner chooses to ignore the insult.

"She's upstairs," he says. "She's been in a state since Tony stopped by to tell us you were in the area."

The god nods, silent.

Banner crosses his arms. "I don't pretend to understand you. But right now, I'd say you're far from a fighting state."

It is true. Dirt and sweat smears his face. His hair is spiked down his back, crusted with sweat. Grime coats his boots. His cloak is tattered. He may very well magic himself, but he wants her to see him for the trouble he has gone through.

"You might be right," the god agrees.

For a long moment, Bruce takes in the sight of Loki. Finally, he shrugs. "Would you like a beer?"

**-XXX-**

He has not enjoyed Midgardian alcohol for some time. The cold - curious, as their ale in Asgard is typically frothing and hot - beverage warms his senses. He lets the alcohol cling to him. The remains tense, however, shoulders a straight line, eyes flickering around the deck the doctor called a "patio." They sit at a metal table, which is covered with an umbrella of bleached reeds. The bottle sits between the god's thin hands. From across the patio table, Banner clutches his own bottle, looking more than a little wary. Loki swallows, shaking his head.

"You need not fear me. For the moment."

Banner doesn't answer, merely sips.

"You know why I have come," Loki continues. "And, though your Iron Man refused to listen, I think you will find I am ready to negotiate a truce."

The doctor leans back. "Are you, now?"

"Perhaps not this second. But if it the only terms you will release her to me on…then, yes. I will consider a friendship between myself and SHIELD."

"We didn't say consider," Bruce points out.

The god sneers, though there is little passion in it. "I do not wish to battle any further tonight," he says quietly. "Fighting is…a distraction toward my cause."

Banner agrees. "But we cannot let her walk away until we're sure you won't simply disappear again, only to crop up somewhere else with another plot to rule the human race. Because, that's what you were planning, right?"

He smiles bitterly. "Naturally. But it seems I shall have to find my rule elsewhere. And I couldn't vanish, even if I wished to. She would not stand for it - missing her cat, you see, and working. I do not know how I feel about a woman taking work - she is happy, though, and nothing could please her more. "

For whatever reason, this amuses the doctor. He looks down at his brown bottle, smiling softly. "She's mentioned Win," he admits.

The god rolls his eyes. "Of course she did."

They speak more, in great length, in regards to the making and breaking of truces. Loki is bitter to agree and lower himself to such a binding, Banner finds, but willing. He has grown tired. Perhaps, in the future, he may attempt to weasel out of the arrangement, but for the moment Tati would keep him to task. He clearly adores the curator - no surprise there, Bruce was half in love with her himself - and had found something in there time apart. Banner isn't under any illusions, however. It's clear the god would rather personally saw off all of his lower limbs than admit any love for the girl. It just wasn't his character.

When the god began to grow restless, Bruce made a decision. _"May SHIELD forgive me," _he thought. _"And Tony, and Steve, and Thor, and Barton and Nat…." _They would understand. Eventually. Once they actually saw the pair together. From Tatiana's narrations, they were exceptionally comfortable around one another for a pair that consistently claimed to not be dating.

"I will find peace with you," Loki stated slowly when the conversation wound down.

Bruce drained the last of his beer, considering. By now, the sun had sunk behind the waves, leaving only the faintest trace of purple on the horizon line. He thought it quite pretty.

"She's upstairs…Steve is at the door. But," He held up one finger. "I'd wait a little while. Steve might not take well to…you."

He understood.

**-XXX-**

Dragged from sleep by the sound of faint voices, I am roused from my bed. I wrap myself in one of the multiple home-spun, net-like sheath jackets to step outside of my room. Steve is asleep at his self-claimed post. I tilt my head. Poor guy was going to have a stiff back if he slept there all night. Under any other circumstances, I would attempt to send him to a proper bed, but considering he's supposed to be guarding me, and what not, that probably isn't a good course of action. Especially seeing as I'm leaving my room, and all. To get a bottled water, to be fair. But still.

I creep downstairs, thankful that they do not creak underfoot. It strikes me when my foot hits the bottom step that if Steve is sleeping, Bruce cannot be talking to him. _"Maybe it's one of the TVs._" I shrug it off, striding to the kitchen. After fetching myself a bottle, I walk to the sliding glass door.

All is dark out there. I can just barely make out the white foamy waves of the rising tide. Water clashes with sand, the spray sending up bubbles against the shore. There I stand for several minutes, listening hard. Bruce, or the TV, is in the living room. And, possibly, as out as Steve is. As quietly as I can, I unlock the sliding glass door, moving it against the frame slowly and precisely until it is open about three feet in width, and slip through, closing it just as carefully behind me.

The night air is chilled. On the deck, I step out the railing, leaning against the wood. I inhale the briny scent of ocean, then tilt my head to the breeze. It feels good against my skin. My eyes are sore, and I have to blink several times to clear them as the wind hits their delicate surface.

For whatever reason, Bruce must believe the "danger" has passed - he isn't out here now, and I don't see anyone else. Tempted by the glittering waters, I leave the deck, removing my slippers and tossing them in one of the steel chairs. I pad down to the waterline. The waves tease my toes. I watch them wiggle, submerged in cool water.

Behind me, I hear the door sliding open. I close my eyes, imagining the expression of annoyance that is sure to be on Bruce's face, his brow furrowed in frustration. It is so rare that he would be angry, but I have a feeling this would be one of those instances. He would likely be upset with Steve, too. At this particular moment, I don't care. If I listen carefully, I can make out feet against wood, crossing the deck, then down the stairs, padding heavily against the sand. And then, so very soft, my name.

Looking back, I can make out an indistinct figure. The shape in the darkness is fluid, slim, though it could be anyone. I don't even bother to squint. In the night, it's pointless. I look again at the waves, waiting for the assault of scolding that I am bound to receive. Again, my name carries on the breeze, light and soft as a falling feather.

I turn back, expecting a disgruntled Steve or Bruce. But what I find is far from disgruntled. In fact, he's downright mirthful.

_"Loki." _I don't know if I think it, say it, or scream it. But that sole thought burns my mind. A candle in the dark.

The god pauses for a beat, stumbling (uncharacteristically) into a walk, then all but soars across the expanse of sand toward me. And I realize all too late that I am sprinting up the beach to him, my bare feet slipping against the compacted grit, sliding forward until I've practically leap onto Loki. He catches me gracefully (though I am anything but) and pulls me to him, so close I don't think there is a millimeter of space between us. My lungs close with his grip. Leather presses into my stomach and chest. Against him, I sink helplessly, supported by the god entirely.

And I'm crying again. Stupid, stupid tears roll down my cheek as I nuzzle his chest, breathing in the smell of smoke and sweat, accented by beer and rain. Frantic lips press into my hair, then a pair of hands slid up my arms, shoulders, neck, to finally cup my face. His forehead rest against mine for an eternity. He smiles at my tears.

"Why so sad?"

"I'm not," I hiccup. "Promise."

Without another word, I pull back, tilting my head up and leaning in again to kiss him lightly. One cool hand finds the base of my skull, navigating me closer by pressing in. I lace my arms around his neck, sighing into the embrace, standing on tiptoe to fully deepen the kiss.

**-XXX-**

She is different. Her skin has a darker tone, and her hair is a few shades lighter. Caramel coloured-streaks flash in the dim light. The locks are loose waves, an effect of the salt. She has been sun-stained. Inhaling, he smells sea and sand. Brushing her face, he can see tearstains against bright red cheeks.

"Miss me again?" she asks quietly. His lips quirk at the quip.

"Mayhaps." He kisses her for a second time, savoring the taste of her skin. She smiles against his smirking lips.

"It seems as though you destroyed quite a lot of government property to get here."

Darkly, he chuckles. "Not nearly enough."

"Oh? I think you proved your point nicely. Took out quite a few people…fought a few Avengers…all because you missed me?"

"Well," the god says casually, using his thumb to sweep along her jaw, quite liking the blossoms of colour that claim her cheeks. "This time, it was not on my terms. Our separation. And you know how I do love to control circumstance."

"Oh yes," says Tatiana, smile blooming. He runs his other thumb over her bottom lip, relishing the grin. "Do I."

**-XXX-**

We stay out there for a long time. He tells me nearly everything he has been up to-nearly, because it is entirely clear he has edited his tale. In hushed tones, we narrate one another's experiences. Loki's grip on me tightens at the start, when I describe the cat, and his lips curl in displeasure at the outline of my journey here. He is positively livid to know I knew of his coming and was barred from greeting him-"Did you expect anything less?"-but I am not much happier when he paints a picture of chaos, destruction, and pining-motivated violence.

"Did you….?" I don't finish the question-I can never finish the question. _"Kill anyone?"_

Bright eyes, void of regret, answer me.

"Oh, Loki," I whisper.

"I do not know…for certain," he tells me quietly.

I hang my head. He was angry, I know. Terrorized by his own mind. But this comes as a disappointment, regardless.

"I will always come to you." Eyes turn to flint. "As I've said before. No matter cost."

"But _I _care about the cost. Especially if it is my cause you're after." My hands slide up to frame his sharp cheeks. "…Oh, Loki."

He presses closer into my touch. I cannot bring it into me push him away, though my sadness and revulsion. He has little to no regret. And no matter how I feel about him, that will affect me. Sighing, I attempt to move back. Loki lets me go.

We are night and day. Me, the overly compassionate fluff, scooping turtles from the middle of the road every spring, tearing up at Humane Society commercials, making pillowcase dresses for African children, a coward. And Loki, a sorcerer, the warrior prince of Asgard who has waged war on Earth, kill possibly hundreds, cold toward anyone he does not see as "his."

I have turned from him, arms crossed to hold myself in. Back to him, my hair whipping in the night air, I speak slowly. "I care for you a great deal. But this…cannot happen again. The next time-" I cut across his breath, the coming words _"There will not be," _ and go on. "-something happens, you can't go about tearing things up, having your way with Helicarriers, willfully injuring anyone. Because, even if you don't feel the slightest shred of remorse, I will not stand for it."

Dangerously, his eyes narrow. "Will you, now?"Loki looms over me. I have yet to turn, but I feel his heat against my back. "My dear, I have gone through Hel and back to come to you."

"And I would do the same for you. But if I were to take your powers while doing it, would you be very happy with me?" My question does little to please him, and he glares. Silent, I look back without expression. "We both have weak points. Mine is people. Blood on your hands is just another reason for SHIELD to take you, anyways."

He is not happy. Loki's mouth is a thin line. A cut of displeasure. But he nods shortly.

I return to his arms, pressing my lips gently to his. "Thank you."

With nothing more than sighs, we part. I take his hand, cool and dry. And, with nothing left to do, I lead him along the stretch of beach I have, for the last two weeks, come to see as my own. When the coral-coloured house is a pinprick of yellow against the black scenery, I sink to the sand, pulling Loki with me. I sit between his legs, his chin on my crown, staring out a wide world beyond.

-XXXX-

**Someone said something about chaos...well, okay, look. I'm not good with action scenes. All my fighting is mental. Seriously. Hopefully this was the climax you were expecting. **

**Thoughts?**

**Anyone have a tumblr? I've been fangirling over Tom lately. Like, reblogging anything with any part of his anatomy in it. At all. I am in no way picky. **


	27. Mishaps

**Mishaps**

**We got our happy reunion! What did you think? What do you predict? **

**It's late, this is late, and I'm a little loopy. Please review. Yeah...bed sounds good now...**

**-XXX-**

We don't return to the house. Loki whisks me away shortly before dawn, claiming he cannot wait to pick up my bag - "Hush now, I'll replace everything…yes, even those 'impractical' gowns. I like a woman in a dress quite as much as I like them out of…ouch." - and that no, Banner doesn't require a goodbye. He pulls me to him, telling me to close my eyes. I open my mouth to ask why, I mean, we've done this before with my eyes open, but he sneakily presses his lips to mine, kissing hungrily. My arms wind around his neck, eyes drifting shut as I'm drawn nearer-

And we're there. I stumble slightly when the setting settles in my vision. I recognize polished tile, wooden railing, and an Edwardian-style light fixture. The brownstone. New York again. Relief jolts my body. A pair of hands find my waist to steady me. Amusement pulls at the corners of Loki's mouth. I would scowl, but I fear I do not have the energy. Instead, I slump against him. The god easily accepts my weight.

For a moment, we stand in the foyer, content to hold one another. I find a space for my head in the crook of his shoulder, where the neck meets his torso. Except for lack of movement, it would almost be like we're dancing.

Does he dance? I cannot imagine Loki waltzing at a wedding, or swaying along to Journey at a school dance, or grinding against the hips of another in a club. It simply isn't his style. He is the epitome of grace. Just not the kind I can envision on the dance floor.

As if reading my mind, he presses closer, his lower body conforming to mine. I squeak with the contact, but he merely grins.

"Yes," he whispers conspiratorially. "I can dance. And quite well, in Asgardian fashion. However, the most recent form of Midgardian courting dances I would very much like to try."

"Right now?" I ask, amused.

A roll of the hips is more than enough to answer my question. I shudder through a gasp. He's being unusually…touchy. Weeks of sharing a bed, and he's never touch my hips like his, or graced my neck with…oh god….

I pull back a little, struggling to mouth words. "Um, what brought this on?"

He doesn't exactly stop his fondling of me, but speaks around it. "Life is short. Well, your life is short-"

"Thanks for the reminder."

Loki ignores me. "-and I've already waited quite some time, my dear, through no fault of your own - though, I must say, a cat? Really, my love? - and I am rather content to…move forward. Completely content, actually."

"Absolutely," I agree, finding breath to be a little difficult at this point. "But there are things we need to talk about. I mean, we seriously just came home-"

"Home?" He raises his head, frowning. "Hm. I like that."

"-and we weren't exactly so, eh, physical. With each other, I mean."

The god moves in time with my form, which is being guided by a pair of hands spread between my waist, stomach, and hips. When we begin a legitimate club grind, I am at a loss. We had our first legit kiss, like, last night. So, that's his go-ahead for everything else? And how the hell did he learn how to do this?

"Loki?" I murmur against his collar. There is a grunt-like noise in response. "We really need to talk about…about things like this."

A pair of lips skim my jaw. "What is there to talk about?"

"Well, for starters, babies."

In less than five seconds he has stilled himself. "I'm listening," he says, attentive.

"I had a feeling that would spark your attention." I smirk. "Right now I'm not particularly in the baby-producing mood. And it can be prevented, just-just-I don't know how potent it will be when the other tango partner is a god."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

He looks uncomfortable. "We'll risk it."

"Oh, no," I shake my head. "_I'll _be the one risking it. And I don't want to. Will this mean tiny half-gods for us?"

"Not yet." He is determined. "I will prevent any…mishaps, Tatiana."

"You promise? This isn't another trick?"

Loki appears mildly offended. "You think I would trick _you?" _

I do not hesitate in rolling my eyes. "I know you would."

In response, he ducks to kiss me. I wiggle away from him. Loki smiles against my lips, taking my wrists in his cold hands to prevent me from moving, kissing harder. Moving to lace arms around his neck (his hands still attached), I sink fingers in his dark locks. His mouth is hard against mine, tongue demanding entrance. When I allow it, I then bite down, hard, on his lip. Cursing loudly, Loki flings me away while I laugh, clinging to the nearest piece of stair railing. The god glares. But I can spot a gleam of playfulness in his eyes.

"That was a very bad idea, Deror," he warns, stalking toward me threateningly. I'm not to let him loom, though, and dart up the stairs. But I am no match-hands quickly find me once I've reached the hallway, and I hit his chest with a _"thud."_

He holds me by the waist as I strain against him, giggling like a loon. When exhausted, I turn in his trap of arms to lace my hands around his neck once again. I kiss him sound on the mouth. Amusement fights in a smile against my lips. Loki's hands drift downwards, brushing the waistband of my sweats. Without warning, my feet are in the air, and I'm being lifted, then carried, toward the bedroom with remarkable grace. I do not protest in the least.

**-XXX-**

At approximately ten in the morning, they greet an unusual crowd of guests to their parlor. Loki finds it amusing, to say the least - he's not yet hosted anyone in this house before, and the fates have now placed the Avengers on his doorstep. How…curious.

They arrive, all of them including Thor and Fury. Tati is tight-lipped as they file in. He insists that she makes tea. The glare he receives is returned in the form of a wide, biting smile. She returns bearing a full tray. Stark is the only one to accept, sinking into the nearest couch, gazing about the room with a mild interest.

"Not the kind of digs I would have pegged for the Silvertongue. A little too…civilized for someone who has, as my colleague puts it, the mental stability of a bag of cats. "

Loki winces at the mention of his Asgardian nickname. "Yes, well…I feel it rather suits me."

Tony shrugs. Tatiana gives him a look that clearly says _"behave,"_ and the god is reminded of Stark's Pepper.

Uncomfortable silence resumes. Loki examines the room's occupants carefully. Only Thor and Fury will stare openly. Banner has eyes only for _his _human (he will have do to something about that soon. He honestly cannot blame the man for an adoration of Tati, but he cannot let it simply slide, either). The Hawk and Widow are far more interested in their corner haunts, keeping check of all exits. His lips curl upon seeing Hawkeye. Barton is ill-at-ease. The Widow keeps one hand on his, hidden in the shadows between them.

_"Interesting," _he thinks, noting the attachment. They'd not been so close a few months ago-and he knew. After all, he'd been in Barton's head, scrambling things up a bit.

Finally, it is Steve who sees fit to break the ice.

"We all know why we're here. It is utterly pointless to continue chatting. So, shall we get on with it?" The Captain swallows. "A truce."

He looks to Fury. "You want Loki gone. Yet he is here still, and is unlikely to be moving on anytime soon. So, I suggest you set down a few terms for discussion."

Fury rubs his chin. "You're going to be on technical probation, Laufeyson. No leaving the planet-hell, no leaving the country. No deaths, no killing. Anything remotely suspicious, and we'll fry your ass right back to Asgard. We'll require full access to you. Any time, day or night. No complaints."

"But that's just for starters," Tony says, ideally steepling his fingers.

Tati speaks.

"Fair enough. But we have our own terms." She is calm. Firm. _"A good queen, someday." _He sits back, pushing aside the thought to listen. "Obviously, no reruns of the last three-ish weeks. As I have said before, the snag-and-bag thing gets old pretty quickly. And you wouldn't want to have another freak-out session on the Helicarrier?" Her smile is positively wicked. She continues. "We want privacy. You can have access, but we want our alone to be 'alone.' All liaisons will be people we know-I call dibs on Bruce."

"We want surveillance of this house."

"Ah, no," the god says. "I shall comply with all other requests. This house isn't simply to do with me, though."

Fury isn't pleased. "We require-"

"She," Loki tips his head Tati's direction. "Isn't part of this. This house is her home as well as mine, and under your laws, she is entitled to privacy."

The director scowls. Beside him, Thor shifts.

"Brother, can you swear that you will leave the people of this world alone? That they will be safe from you?" The elder god's crystalline eyes are unreadable. "Can you swear it?"

Loki inclines his head.

Thor steps back. "That is enough for me, director."

"But not for me." Fury glances to Natasha and Barton. Both tense, at the ready. Barton's shoulders straighten, and the Widow's chest shoves forward, fingers twitching. The others do not follow suit – they've just barely noted the sharpen figures beside them. Loki snorts.

"Your playacting is amusing."

"Funny, I didn't realize I was running a damn comedy club," the one-eyed man growls. "You've already got one foot in the Bifrost, Loki, I suggest you listen and listen well."

"I will make truce with you," he says loudly. "Upon my word. There will be peace between us, Avengers. I do not know what else you may require, but this is my promise. I shall…remain on Midgard." Here his eyes become level with Tati's. She is scared, yes, and so nervous. They're risking everything in this pow-wow. "And lead a quieter life. Does that content you?"

The director grunts.

Loki waits. He has no doubt that the man will accept his terms. Everyone is tired, ready to find peace. All shift uneasily, waiting for the one-eyed man to make a decision. The once-prince is reminded of his father's court, as all would wait in anxious silence around the Allfather as he pondered various rulings and matters of state. The reverence shown by all – even Stark, even Tati – is admirable. Loki has no doubt more than half of these people hate Fury in some capacity, so it is quite interesting to see their clear regard for him as their leader. The only one second in rank to him might be the clean-cut Captain. But he was making no challenges. _"A soldier all the way," _thinks the god with a wry internal grin.

His human's fingers find his. She doesn't look at him, keeping her face closed, lips pursed, staring ahead. The motion is surprising. He squeezes.

"We accept, Loki Odinson." The man is stiff. Fury is far from content with the arrangement, but, as Loki recalled, such was the way of compromise. "And we will be watching you."

The god's lips curl. "I have no doubt of it. Now, if you don't mind – get out of my house."

They shuffled out. Tati followed Banner and Stark to the door. The pair hung back, with the Captain's hulking form in the threshold. From the space left, Loki could peer outside and see a motorbike, and the bumper of red car.

He doesn't like Tati's hands on Banner and Starks, nor does he appreciate the smiles she is directing toward them. He approaches their circle to listen, face impassive. He does not touch the human, but his figure radiates claim. Banner's eyes slowly meet his, breaking away from Tatiana, and there is a definite understanding. After the encounter, Loki feels a small swell of pride – he's not typically made such subtle claims before – and finds the experience satisfying.

"—thank you, again, for coming. I don't think the bargaining would've gone over as well without some back up," Tati is murmuring. "And thank you for working with us on this."

"No problem, Tati," Stark drawls, dark eye bright. "The trick now will be keeping this one's –" He jerks a thumb Loki's direction. " – toes on the line. But I have no doubt you can handle it."

His human snorts. "Right. I have a feeling this will only work if he is desperate enough to stay here."

"Oh, I'm sure I can think of a few things he is desperate for." Tony let his gaze scan his hostess, then the god's motion closer to his reader. Loki scowls.

Tati doesn't see this, but sighs. "We can only hope."

"I happen to be present," Loki reminds them. "I did promise, did I not?"

The look all four of the foyer's occupants give him is answer enough. Once a trickster, always a trickster.

**-XXX-**

"Sir?"

Fury is broken from his reverie by the clipped tone of Agent Barton. The older man glances back from his seat by the window. He had been watching the city pass by – marveling at its reconstruction. Over half a year has passed since the Chitauri incident. The people had done what they did best; overcome.

Barton peers at him calmly, waiting for his commander to speak.

The director pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer fingers, closing his eye. With a heavy breath, he sits back. "That went well."

The Hawk doesn't disagree, but his eyes are dry with humor.

"I assume this mean we shall be going forward with the original plan?"

It's posed as a question, but the director knows it is merely an inquiry of confirmation; of course they shall be going forth. How foolish would it be to let that Asgardian bastard have his run of New York? He already has a headache enough with the Avengers – why aggravate it with allowing a deranged deity to take up residence in the city? Especially one with so many charges on his godly head.

"You would be right," the director rumbles. "Tell Thor to be at the ready – he isn't going home without his brother in tow."

Barton winces, grey eyes weary. "Looks like he'll be on lock down for a while. Not going to be too happy about that, seeing as Foster is waiting for him across the Rosen Bridge."

"Just call the damn thing a wormhole." Fury has no love for the squint-terminology. He knows Barton spends a lot of time studying all aspects of his various missions. The man has a mind for science, and preferred to comprehend his quarry or his wards if at all possible. "And he'll deal. It shouldn't be more than a week."

The Hawk bows his head slightly. "And Deror?"

This was one complication. Fury knows how protective Banner and Stark can be of the girl. Even the Captain has a softer spot for her – unsurprising, as his age-old manners gives him an automatic liking toward women. Even stoic Barton has warmer feeling toward the curator, mild ones that refused to disrupt his duties. The elder prince, too, has displayed some affections toward her, though that could be a result of his brother's preference. He had proposed already that Deror might be brought to Asgard following his once-brother's punishment, once all has settled. She is like, protected. The result of their actions, if not tempered with the SHIELD complacency and efficiency for smoothing things over.

Allowing Bruce and Tony access to her might do the trick, the one-eyed man mused. Their attachment was a little bemusing at times. But it could very well calm Deror's sorrows – if she had any – as well as prevent a coup from an angry Iron Man.

And Bruce…well, Fury still is not sure of Bruce's affections for the curator. He jumped at the chance to babysit her in Florida. An indication of feelings deeper than friendship? Fury didn't know, yet that was not about to prevent him from exploiting a "maybe."

Let the Iron Man and Banner comfort the grieving young woman. It was a potentially good move – she might not be a Jane Foster, but an art expert could prove useful to SHIELD somewhere along the line. Perhaps Potts could find work for her here in the city….

"Sir? What about Deror?"

Fury glances back up. "She'll be fine."

**-XXX-**

**Mwhahahaha, twisty plot! I can't let anyone be happy, can I? Just like Grey's Anatomy...**

**Sorry for the lack of personal response to reviews. Like I said, I'm at camp right now, and I have maybe an hour before bed to use my laptop. I'll be back soon enough!**


	28. Freely Abandoned

**Lovely response, guys! We've got a kinda break here...peaceful-ish. We get some bonding, too. Most of this is from Loki's POV, which I've felt we've missed a little.**

**Thank you!**

**-XXX-**

With the advent of their freedom, Tati takes to staying indoors readily. The bed is once again her friend, only now she drags him into it, away from his books. Or, she curls around him as he slumps over massive tomes, enjoying the yellowy lamp light and quiet hum of his breathing. They speak in hushed tones, always. She asks questions of his life before, of Asgard, of their shared dreams. He tells her of his magics a little more, detailing through sparkling pictures and formulas drawn from his fingertips. These pictures always flare green, drifting in the air for several minutes as he lectures. She tells him he ought to teach, to which he snorts and asks _"Who?"_

This bitterly reminds them both that the only students he might ever yield would not be on Midgardian soils.

Tati sighs into him, rolling to nuzzle against his sides. Loki then resumes his lesson, outlining the finer points of transfiguration, the book he'd previously been reading still sitting open on his crossed legs, abandoned for the moment.

He tells her of magics and their dangers. Of constellations. Of Sif and Thor and Odin and Fregga, and the courts. He quietly speaks of the tree Yggdrasil, the lands beyond Asgard, the dragon-snake on her ring. When he speaks of Ragnarok, he takes her hands into his to stroke the metal he set there. The green-eyed beast winks.

"The dreams?" she asks. "Were they real? Or was I compensating?"

"For the most part they were real."

"And the place? The hall, with the pillars?"

He considers not telling her, but Tati is earnest. "It is of Asgard," he finally says. "My home…in the palace."

Tati nods, thoughtful. "I forget sometimes, that you are a prince."

The god bares his teeth. They glint white. Tati moves closer.

"A particularly charming one?"

"No."

He had not expected anything more or less.

For a while, they live in peace. Or, at least, relative peace. The god knows good and well that SHIELD did not just walk away from an opportunity to return him to Asgard – fortunately, he is not that stupid – and is now only waiting for their newest strike against him and his newfound happiness. Such is the way of life. He knows he can ward them off for a while at least, but he is not about to tell Tati of his revelation. It would only serve to trouble her when they could be instead enjoying their calm. Besides, he was far too used to keeping information from her.

The city is theirs again. Tati now insists on visiting places far out from their scope before. He has no liking for the bustling restaurants, but he likes the opera, the plays, and the galleries and museums. He'd thought to take her to a few of the galleries upon her initial arrival; they had simply never had the time. It was a nice excursion for the evenings. Tati finally found a use for the "stuffy" and "impractical" satin gowns he had left in her wardrobe. Loki wore his suits and scarves in good humor – he had not graced the public so well-dressed since Stuttgart.

It was a showing of _Aida_ when he found them. He had purchased them a box for the evening. Tati excused herself for the restroom, leaving behind her opera glasses and gloves. She found the experience thrilling, learning the etiquette, seeing all the pomp and circumstance, observing the milling about of those far older and richer than she. It bore him; Loki was, after all, reared in a life of court ceremonies. But her attitude amused him.

He'd put her glasses in his lap and was fiddling with the gold dials when the scarlet caught his eye – shortly shorn locks of flame, pouting red lips. _Black Widow. _

She wore a black gown that flared at her hips, emphasizing her curves and drawing the eyes of every man in the vicinity. To her right was the ice-eyed Barton, his gaze scanning the crowd. They both appear natural, clean-cut, like any other couple there to enjoy the music. Not too far off from himself and Tatiana, if he were be honest with himself. Though, in this case, both are on edge. Watching….

Without a doubt, watching for the other couple. Natasha is very carefully not looking in the direction of Loki's box.

His lips curl. _"Let them come."_

The would not. Not here. Not now. For the moment, Fury has them observing Loki. Waiting for him to slip. Or waiting for an opportunity.

When Tati returns, he says nothing of it, but smiles faintly when she plucks her small binoculars from his lap. She bends to his ear, kissing his cheek before whispering. "Having fun?"

"Oh?"

"You have a very self-satisfied expression on your features," she explains. "Along with a savage bloodlust gleaming in your eyes."

He lets out a bark of laughter. "Do I now? Well, perhaps opera suits my taste."

"Hm, no. It's far too tame for you."

His human sits down with a great grace than usual, one hand finding his to trace the patter of his knuckles. He lets her for several minutes, then shifts his palm upwards to accept hers, squeezing. The second act would be beginning shortly.

"I find myself in need of a bathroom," he says abruptly. Tati blinks.

"Nature calls for the great god? Or do you need to powder your nose?" she teases as he rises to leave their box. "I did not think you vain, Loki Laufeyson."

He lifts her hand, leaving a brief, scorching kiss on the soft flesh. Then he makes his leave. Cane in hand, he gracefully descends down the grand staircase, letting his scarf fly about his neck. Fall is upon them now, and while he did not feel the new cold against his Jotun-tempered skin, he took to wearing heavier jackets and scarves. He has a particular fondness for this scarf – Tati found it last time they graced a clothing store (which he cannot recall the name of for the life of him). It is a creamy white with a faint diamond patter. Bright threads of spring green run throughout, giving the fabric a slight metallic sheen. She had arranged it before they left, after tying his bowtie, stepping between him and the mirror to slide the fabric of Angora rabbit wool.

Barton waits below. He is silent, arm crossed behind his back. The archer is relaxed, or at least playing at relaxed, and turns to regard the god with great calm. Loki sees a twitch in the younger man's jaw however, and feels a deep, internal rush of glee. The archer clearly still holds reservations against Loki for the soul-control spell he had only fully shaken off six months ago. The god is surprised Barton is here without his Widow.

"Agent Barton," Loki begins softly. "It is a _pleasure. _I was not aware of your regard for the opera and musical arts."

"I'm not so much a fan of Verdi as I am protecting citizens. And ridding the world of you." The younger fellow's chin juts upwards, the set of his mouth grim. "I'd say you knew this was coming."

Loki inclines his head. "I had a notion."

"I'd say good," Barton says. "But God knows I'd rather surprise your noble ass and pull one over on you. You're going back to Asgard."

At this, the god's lips curl. "Am I, now? I believe your people had a bargain with me…one I have honored. Therefore, I shan't be joining you or my brother this evening…."

The archer shakes his head. "You don't understand. It doesn't matter if you've been a goody-two-shoes who has been spending his weekends at the Humane Society and working at soup kitchens. SHIELD has your number, you bastard. We've seen what you can do. Do you think they'll just let you walk around Manhattan? We are not going to risk it."

"You dare to take me now?"

Barton had been clenching his fist. With this, he sinks back slightly, his bright eyes cooling. "No. Not tonight. But we will be waiting."

"I would expect nothing less." Loki bows his head.

The archer is at a loss, though his icy nature would speak otherwise. "You're not fighting this?"

Weary, the god lets out a long breath. He let his eyes trail back up the stairs, toward the direction of his box. The pendant flares warmth again his chest, and he feels Tati and her anticipation. Barton follows his eyes and instantly understands.

"She will be better off without you," he says bluntly, without preamble. "You've thought of this, I know. She won't have to worry about being snatched away…about her life falling apart simply because you're in a bad mood. Surely you can see this would be better for her. If anything, you can see this."

Loki sneers. "And you have taken care of yours, have you?"

He is referring to Natasha. Barton doesn't flinch. "She takes care of herself. And she would be the first to tell you such. Yours, though, isn't Nat. She's different. This person had a life before you. She had plans and a future. What have you done to all of that? All that's at the end of her path is _you. _Do you think that's enough?"

He would be torn limb from limb. How dare the archer suggest he could not care for his reader.

"She would be better off," Barton continues. "Happier. Maybe not a first. But later, she would be."

"So I should leave her freely and willing?" Loki bares his teeth. "Abandoned."

"No," the archer says mildly. "Free."

If they were not in a public setting, the god would have lunged and torn out the archer's throat, then savored the sight seeping scarlet life's blood as it fell to the polished tiles. He would watch the light fade from the agent's ice-coloured eyes – an inadvertent reminder of Jotunheim – and know that he would be eternally parted from the spider-woman, know that he had parted them as he once promised, know that SHIELD would feel his message. Loki would absorb this moment, then clean himself of the bodily fluids to return to his reader, then claim her later in the night.

This savage, animal longing is repressed. Loki straightens himself, eyes cold as he turns the cane in his hand slowly. He releases a long breath before he meet's the archer's equally cool gaze. "I shall see you, sir."

With that, he stayed his cruel hand to return to Tati.

**-XXX-**

Watching the heartbroken Nubian slave girl sing out her melancholy to her love as they are sealed into a vault, the light fast fading, I clutch my gloves. I cannot understand the fast Italian. Yet the raw emotions of the vocalists are impossible to ignore. Beside me, Loki smirks at my tears. While he whispers out the lyrics – naturally, he knows Italian – in a mocking tone, I swat at him.

"Shhh," I hiss.

"Oh, please. This story is –"

"Shut up!" I squeak, pushing him away. He's leaned in close to nuzzle my neck, one hand on my thigh. "I want to hear the ending."

Loki settles back, sighing. He is silent through the rest of the song, and then stands with me to applaud. When it's over, we gather our belonging – I feel like I've got a suitcase in comparison to him, seeing as I've got opera glasses, gloves, cloak, and a clutch, whereas Loki only has his cane – and we exit the box, descend down the stairs, and head for the sidewalk. We have no car waiting for us, and no taxi; the god much prefers we use his magic to hop to and fro (though he does not appreciate my use of the term "hop").

Once outside, we walk about two blocks, both lost in the chilled night air. It's getting cooler every day, painfully so. Luckily, my cloak is velvet lined with mink, and wonderfully warm. I pull it tighter around my shoulder, looking down the street. Beside me, my partner smiles slightly.

He enjoys the cold. Relishes it, even. Morning walks without a coat are nothing to him, where as I am far more likely to lay about in bed, moaning as the Trickster tugs on my toes, daring me to brave the misty morn air. It more likely than not that I find myself in the park, scowling as Loki lounges on a bench, reading some thick leather-bound book while I shiver pathetically.

Loki pulls me into an alley. Clever fingers play along my spine as the god smiles against my lips.

"Home?" I ask.

"I think yes…." He is thoughtful. "Unless you would care for a nightcap?"

"Nah. I'm tired. And emotional." I bite my lip. "You know how stuff like that gets me."

He rolls his eyes playfully. "I've got a bunny where I'd rather a warrior maiden. Whatever became of the stoic creature that faced SHIELD, went against her own people?"

"Well, when you put it that way," I say lightly. "It sounds all bad, like I was hostile toward Midgard."

Loki laughs. "You're spending too much time with me, my half-wit. Referring to your home in its Asgardian name. My dear, I do hope you're not picking up my other traits."

I kiss him. He leans into it, slowly and sweetly pushing back. The cool fingers press into my backbone, the pressure making me more than a little warm. Lightheaded, I pull back slightly.

"Picking up your habits?" I ask. Loki sighs, tightening his arms around me. There is a burst of light. And we're –

"Home again, home again," I sing lowly.

"And here to stay," he finishes, another smirk playing on his thin lips.

"To stay," I agree.

**-XXXX-**

**And another oncoming storm...****They just can't catch a break, can they? **

**Thoughts? Feeling? Comments, questions, critiques, I take 'em all! **

**I am going to see Avengers again Monday. It was an option for our off-night at camp, and while I'd love to see Brave, which was another choice, I just...I just can't. **


	29. Clever Can't Always Save

"What if I were not here?" he asks one dreary, rain-ridden afternoon. I've been curled up in a window seat in the parlor, watching the drops dew crystal-like against the glass. Though Loki has been in the corner, thoroughly engrossed in some massive, back-breaking text, he's also been carelessly wiggling his fingers. The magic causes the drops to create pictures – simple ones of animals, flowers, then complex patterns and intricate designs. Eventually, I tried my own hand at picture-making. Whether he follows my motions or lets the drops act as iron shavings to my magnet fingers, the forms come out.

"What do mean?" I turn, cuddling a pillow closer to me. "Like, gone…or never around to begin with?"

He waves his hand. "What would you do if you were alone and able to do what you wish without me getting in your way?"

I blink. "Um…I don't know. Get my cat back. Or maybe get a job. Why? Are you going somewhere?"

"Perhaps." His eyes turn back to the text.

"Forever?" I say this with breath, though I feel a little lightheaded.

"Temporarily," Loki assures me. "But most likely not. I've no real cause to go, have I?"

"I would not pretend to know."

His eyes scan the letters, but he hears me. "It was just a question."

I know better; nothing is just a question with Loki Laufeyson. Still, I don't press, and turn back to my window. A dagger of ice is now shining on the glass, and I quickly use my fingertips to transfigure its shape into that of a bunny. In the corner, Loki sighs loudly, flipping through a few crackling pages. For the moment, all is well.

**-XXX-**

They come to him in morning. He let Tati sleep in this morn, finally swayed by her muffled protests. He strode around the park, bought a bagel, and absorbed the crisp dawn air without his reader by his side for the first time in a long time. He had taken up residency at one bench with chipped green paint, sipping his cardboard cup of tea. That's when Fury sat beside him.

"Laufeyson."

"Director." The god's voice is as cool as the frigid morning breezes. "I thought you might never approach me."

"We were waiting for an appropriate time."

"You mean not around my charge." It is not a question.

The one-eyed man frowns. "She is hardly a child."

"Oh, I've never treated her as such," Loki assures him. "You certainly did. But I've never had such…reservations. Underestimations, really."

"You understand why –"

The god cuts across him smoothly. "I simply never comprehended why you decided to play about the farce of a truce. Once you took her, you knew this playacting could only lead about one direction. Come now, Director, you are far too clever to believe I would not think otherwise. I knew, as you did, that my initial refusal spelled out the rest of this show."

"You cannot stay here." Fury shook his bald head. No regret tinges his tone, but there is a slight rumble. "I'm not going to endanger the lives of several million people by taking a chance on you. No matter what Stark or Deror might say. We both know you could wipe away half this city with all the power in your pinky if you so dared."

Loki graces the director with a feral smile. "Then why don't I?"

Fury does not blink. "Because, what purpose would it serve? You don't kill without cause, do you?"

Another sip of his tea – some cinnamon and cloves blend he finds to be rather tasty, if a little sweet – and the once-prince considers. "I am no cold-killer. That would be my brother. The war-monger."

Fury shrugs. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

"No," Loki agrees quietly. "You wouldn't, would you?"

They sit, silent, for some time. The god uses the time to scan the street. Barton rests against the decorative molding of a bank across the street. The Widow browses one t-shirt stand on the corner. A few men in dark suits mill about at random. They're quite surrounded. He would expect nothing less from SHIELD.

"Where is your tin-soldier?" he asks casually.

Fury's brow furrows. "Out, for the moment. Big business in Greece…."

"Ah," Loki says interestedly. "With Stark? Yes, the riots…I see you're keeping them busy. But you let them miss this little soirée?"

"Oh, I think they'll forgive me, in time."

"I should hope so," the god murmurs. "Very well, Director. Shall we speak openly? I do not see my brother, though I would pay a king's ransom to say he is lurking about to carry me home."

"You would be right."

"Tell me, how do you plan on dragging me home?"

"With this, brother."

Behind them, Thor looms, somber and still. The hammer rests in one of his massive hands, his grip tightening on it even as Loki allows his gaze to scan the elder prince.

"My brother," he says softly, rising. "You have again graced us of fair Midgard with your presence."

"I never left, Loki," Thor looks his sibling dead in the eye, his own sapphire gaze steely. "I stayed for you. To bring you home."

"I have no wish to return," hisses the younger god. "So your time has been wasted upon me. Return to Asgard, to your glorious reign among the peoples of flame. Leave me here. I want nothing more than to be away from you."

"Brother, our parents weep," Thor continues. "And all of court mourns. Return with me."

One mighty hand clamps down upon Loki's forearm. He stares at it, knowing that the time he has dreaded is now at hand. _"So much sooner than I'd feared…._" He was not yet done preparing Tati for his departure. She would not understand.

"This is what is best for you, brother," Thor pleads gently. "And her."

At the mention of his reader, Loki's eyes flash. "You know nothing of her –"

"Are you going to let this hang over your head always? Come home and accept your consequences, and then you shall be free to her and yourself. Otherwise…." Thor drifts off, uncertain. "Believe me, brother, you need this."

Without a word Fury nods. A pair of thick silver manacles appear in Thor's unoccupied hand, then find their way around Loki's wrists. The younger god strains, snarling. Calm, his brother steps away.

"We must go now," he says slowly.

"No," the younger god hisses, then staggers forward. "Brother, I – I cannot go without telling her – she will think badly of me…."

Thor visibly hesitates, but Fury shakes his head. "No. You knew this was coming. I cannot allow –"

The God of Thunder raises a single plate-sized hand to silence the one-eyed man. He peers at Loki uncertainly, trying to discern falsehood. But his brother has a silver tongue, and finding the truth is a difficult as discovering lies. He cannot tell if there is sincerity in his brother's stance.

"If we let you do this," Thor begins carefully, a few blond locks falling into his bright eyes. "You will come calmly? You will not flee?"

"I swear it," his once-brother murmurs, eyes locked onto the blue orbs of his sibling. "I will try nothing. Merely, let me say my goodbyes. Let her see me walk away as my own man, not as a caged beast."

Slowly, Thor considers. Then he nods, ignoring Fury's growing protest. "You shall say your farewells, brother. Come –"

All the while, the SHIELD Director argues against their intentions. Thor ignores him, leading his sibling by the elbow to the brownstone that sits only three blocks away. All accusations of irresponsibility and madness are brushed aside – the blond god has a singular focus for the moment. The matter is now between brothers, not SHIELD. When they stop before the stoop, Fury is arguing with the large man while Thor removes the restraints.

"And you trust him to return?" demands the one-eyed man.

Thor looks to his brother. The blue burns into Loki's green. The understanding found there, between their gazes is answer enough for Fury, who stops short.

"Yes," the elder prince says simply. He turns to his brother. "Say your farewells to your woman. We will be here. If you do not return in a timely manner, my brother, I will be forced to seek you."

Loki nods. "Thank you."

He lets himself inside with a flicker of fingers and soft murmur. Automatically he can sense her – still in bed, but being roused by the daylight creeping in from the crack in the drapes. Like a shade, he steals up the stairs. Without a word, he enters their room, closing the door while quieting the hinges (with a spell that might last long beyond the house), and stands back to observe her.

She lies on her stomach. The covers are up to her neck, and he can make out a frizzed curtain of dark hair. One arm is stretched out, resting in a bow on the pillow beside her head. The duvet rises and falls with her breath. He crosses quietly, then pulls at the fabric. Tati shifts, murmuring a moan, then curls into herself against the cold. Loki suppresses a smile with the memory of his motivation for disturbing her slumber.

"Loki," she mumbles, turning on the mattress to face him, blinking back the dawn light. "I really don't want to go for a walk. It's freeze-your-ass-off-cold out there. Actually, it's freeze-your-ass-off-cold in here, too."

He waves one hand carelessly to remedy that for the moment, then moves to sit in the armchair across from the bed. Eye level with her, he speaks softly. "I've already had my walk and come back, my love."

"Oh?" She shifts up, rubbing her eyes.

Now he smiles – it is slight, but present. Reassurance. "Tatiana…I want you to promise me you'll not be foolish."

At this she blinks. Then frowns. "Ever?"

"Ever," he confirms. "Promise me you'll be as insightful as I know you can be. That you'll get by. Properly."

"Uh." She is blatantly confused. He simply deepens the smile (_"Humans are always so trusting. Easy to believe even when they are most aware."_). "Yeah. I can do that. Why? Are you going away somewhere?"

His core aches. Looking at her with mussed hair and stunningly keen eyes, her lips parted and skin glowing in the dawn air, sleep still in her, he knows that he will _miss _this. More than anything on Midgard. His reader. Half-wit.

Loki does not answer her. "My dear half-wit," he sighs instead. "You've going to have to be very careful and very smart. But I know you. You're not nearly as stupid as I pretend you to be."

"Thank you, I think. Loki, what are you saying?" She is properly sitting up now, swinging her legs out of bed. Tatiana crosses to him, one hand outreached to touch his cheek. The warm fingers trace the lines of his face. Worry etches the pale planes, he knows. Worry, and creases he cannot even begin to name. She smoothes all of these, murmuring softly as his eyes drift shut. Once closed, she kneels to become level with him, then presses her lips to his. He inhales her scent, and she his, and for several minutes they simply _are. _They let themselves be at peace, just for the moment.

No tears are shed, but as she takes his collar, hungrily pulling the god closer, he recognizes desperation and fear and uncertainty in her every breath, only because it's reflected back in him.

Finally he pulls back.

"Know that I do not leave you of any will of mine," he whispers. "Know that this has _never_ been my choice, and that if the fates were kinder – if I were –"

A finger to his lips stops him.

"I'll be right here," she promises. It's then that her voice catches. It is slight, but enough to slice through the stoic Trickster. "I'll be right here…but I can't wait forever, Loki."

He knows. He cannot expect her to.

One hand rises to her jaw, thumb stroking her chin. "My reader. Tatiana." His eyes raise to meet hers, glazed and deep. "I intent to not make you wait long. I will return to you. For you."

Loki can practically see the words echo in her mind. Their private pact against the world. A lover's bond. _"I will return to you. For you." _Always.

She takes his lips again. Then he feels the threads of his Asgardian bonds tug – Thor beckons. For a brief moment he tastes her lip.

"I must go," he pushes her back an arm's length.

She honors him; no tears, no wails of want, Tatiana removes herself from his arms and stands back. He rises, then crosses to the door. As he passes, he takes up her hand – the one bearing the ring.

Tapping the green stone, he tells her serious, "Keep this on."

"Like I can take it off," she says wryly.

His silence is enough of a response. Before speaking again, he closes his eyes briefly. In a focused rush of power, he summons forth every protective charm he knows, every spell and every speck of goodwill. It goes into her, sinking into the ring for those requiring physical, non-living anchors, and into her skin for those that sought flesh-and-blood in their work. After they swell around her, Loki opens his eyes. The mass of magic is a huge sum – following today, she probably wouldn't be able to run the pads of her fingers against the blade of a common kitchen knife.

Once again, he strokes her jaw. "Tati."

And then he's down the stairs, and out the door, into the silver fox's mask, into the shackles, the SHIELD car, the bifrost, and beyond.

**-XXX-**

Gone.

_"What if I were not here?"_

Gone.

"_Promise me you'll be as insightful as I know you can be. That you'll get by. Properly."_

Just…out the door. Calmly.

_"Tati." _

No fight. Simply… departed.

_"I will return to you. For you."_

_ "To you…."_

_ "…For you."_

In the vast silence, I gasp, then sink to the floor. A new pain blooms in my chest. The blossom of ache consumes me as I gape, clutching my chest, trying to absorb the happenings of the last half-hour. Loki. Gone. Loki. Vanished. Loki. Leaving. Loki. _Loki._

I surge to my feet. Where – to where? Where must I go to see – I've sought him before, I'll seek him again.

But he is so beyond me down. To places where I cannot follow. Asgard.

There is nothing I can say or do.

Will this be our life, always?

**-XXX-**

The dreams do not come that first week. But they arrive in the next, swift and sparkling of the empty hall of pillars. My mind reels forward, darting through the stone trees, until it halts and everything in thrown into focus. I stand before a cage of some forbidding dark metal. The space around the box is lit by several flickering torches. The foremost surface of the box flickers, developing a sheen similar to frosted glass. In the center, beyond the glass, is a figure, dark and solid. The surface shifts again, and the image grows clear. A reed-thin person, with dark hair, dark cloak, back to glass.

I move forward on quick strides. My fists hit the glass that is not glass, and feel an unpleasant jolt of foreign energy. The figure turns slightly. Green eyes meet my own panicked orbs.

I sag against the surface. The person moves to mimic me, hands were my fists rest. Loki's eyes are dark, his entire figure tensed as a deer ready to run, a serpent reared to strike, and his mouth sealed by a silver half-mask that reminds me of a fox's muzzle. Staring, I reel back slightly. His fingers stretch against the barrier. Shaking his head, the silver melts away, and he moves his lips, testing his jaw.

"Loki," I breathe, and before I even know it I've pressed myself to the glassy surface. His gaze is bright with amusement.

"Mourning me already?"

"Wha-" I glance down to see my corporal form wrapped in a smoky, gauzy sort of sort fabric, which has silver threads running through its length, giving off a faint shimmer in the torch light. Not exactly mourning dress, but it is black. "No, I –"

"Do not mourn?"

"Oh, shut up," I snap at his mockingly sad expression. " Of course I am. But it's not like you're dead. You know that's not how people mourn nowadays, anyways."

Huffily, the god crosses his arms. Even in my dream, he is an arrogant bastard, which is further proven by the smug _"How do you know?" _that follows his sigh.

Unable to describe the sensation, I say simply, "I would feel it."

This pleases him (which only serves to irritate me), and Loki brushes a hand against the barrier, where my cheek would be. I can almost feel the energy pulse. Does it bother him as it does me? I don't ask. We stand, quiet. Not a word passes between us, but it is nothing that troubles me; I don't know what to say, what words I might speak to sooth the pains of separation. I still do not fully comprehend the circumstance, yet asking after that feels premature. So we gaze upon one another.

After nearly ten minutes, I speak.

"Where are we?"

"Ah." He backs away from the barrier slightly. "The Pavilion of Secrets. A chamber in the palace of Asgard."

"You're home, then."

"Well," he snorts, gesturing delicately. "This is hardly what I would describe as my usual suites."

"You mean they don't always lock you up in a big metal box and gag you? I would; I bet you're a horrid house guest."

"And you would be the one to know," he points out in false cheer.

I lower my lashes. "Then I had no clue what I was getting into. Joseph warned me…taking a Renaissance Festival freak in…."

"…who turns out to be the Trickster God?"

A sigh. "It was not what I would claim to be my brightest decision."

Loki grins. "And yet it brought you to me!"

"No," I correct. "You to me. Why are you so cheerful."

The god shakes his head. "Haven't I cause to be? You're sleeping, you're dreaming…all is well. I've missed my half-wit."

"Oh, how I've missed those terms of endearment," I say wryly. "Your overwhelming affection, my lord, has been so greatly yearned for. My heart grieves, alas –"

"Very funny," he says loudly. "If only it were not true."

"Indeed."

His smirk is wide. "Tatiana Deror. Your wit is ablaze this evening."

"I apologize. It's had little stimulation over the course of the week."

"Oh yes…I can see that."

Had there not been the barrier between us, I would have smacked him. The words are harmless enough, but the expression that follows makes it clear he's not referring to my wit being stimulated. In a mocking scandal, I move back from the glass, teasing. Loki's foxlike eyes follow me, and I am reminded of the mask.

"What were you wearing?" I ask, peering up at him.

An unhappy look crosses over his features – tight and strained. With a gentle wave of his long fingers, the silver melts back into place, strapping his lips and jaw tightly together. Those ever-green eyes stare out at me, vast, miserable (though he would never say a much), cold. In that look there is more said than in one thousand words. My fingers trace the shape of the mask in the air. From the darker places of my mind comes the cool murmur: _"Silvertongue. Liarsmith. Tangletongue. Snake…fox. Loki Liarheart." _

A gag. To trap his clever tongue. I blink.

"Loki…." I reach up to touch the barrier. My heart aches for him. For an artist of words, to be silenced. What of his defense? And who had left him in this cage, a savage prison in the midst of such refined beauty? An ugly eyesore in the middle of loveliness. The Pavilion of Secrets…to keep Laufeyson hidden?

The mask disappears again. He steps away from the glass. Loki doesn't speak, but stares at me openly, allowing me to absorb the realization.

"Who did this to you?" I ask.

A cruel humor quirks his lips. "My family, of course."

I recoil in horror. "Your _family?"_

"I did stand against them," he answers wryly. "If you recall."

I do. Oh, gods, I do. That day in New York is still clear in my mind, seven months later. To this day it still stuns me Loki was the cause of this terror. But then again, knowing him, it's really not.

"You're going to wake soon," he says softly.

But I still have so many questions! I open my mouth to protest, but find no sound can exit. A heavy weight falls upon my lips. I lift my finger tips, and find cold metal encasing my mouth. A mask. Just like Loki's. Panic surges in my chest. He observes me, unperturbed.

"I cannot promise you more dreams," he tells me seriously. "But know that you are safe."

Before I can protest, the image fades. Everything blurs, and I am tugged away from the dream. Just before he disappears from my sight, I can see the silver fox mask melt back into place. He turns away….

**-XXXX-**

**Yeah. I'm super tired. Editing sucks, I know. **

**Saw Avengers for the third time. It was lovely. **

**Thanks for the continued support. Imma gonna go sleep now...**


	30. Relinquished and Ruled

**Um. Wow. The response to that was...disappointing.**

**What did you guys think?**

**Very emotional chapter...all Loki's POV. Takes place in Asgard. We see a little more of Loki's violent side - such as his encounter with Hawkeye. Cameo by Lady Sif...it's jammed packed.**

**-XXX-**

Truth be told, he had been scheming. Slightly.

It was his nature. Loki did not make plans for the sake of plans, but rather for his own security and defense. So what if he was seeking more power? If he was storing back energy, if he was avoiding the eyes of those around him, keeping Tati at a distance….what of it? He was not a threat lest they made him such.

He goes with them, silent, resigned, in his mask. The silver, to cover his silver tongue. Bitterly, Loki accepts his brother's grip. They are going home.

**-XXX-**

He is greeted home with less-than-welcoming arms. His parents are relieved, mad, and finally rid of their grief. Their son is alive. And home.

The punishment he receives is nothing more than a slap on the wrists. Silvertongue is put in a mask, his lies prevented by a silver contraption sealed to his face. He is contained for sometime in a sort of iron prison, alone, in the Pavilion of Secrets-a vast room of pillars, segregated from the main palace. It was where he met Tati in her dreams. Accidentally, of course.

Where he will meet her still.

Thor came often, mournful and eager to make brotherly peace. His advances were not rejected entirely. Odin comes on occasion, silent in the presence of his son-who-was. The prince-for he is a prince again-is reminded of Fury when that one-eyed stare is turned upon him. It is little comfort - both men would see him here. Trapped. In Asgard. In misery. Forever a wayward prince - never the high king.

His brother has told them of Loki's plans, of his demise. His new life. His war against SHIELD. And of her. Tati. _"His woman."_

The exact term unsettles him. While the god may possess Deror, he doesn't care for the very Asgardian phrasing. For she is his as he is hers. They own no one but each other.

He knows Frigga has asked Odin to bring Tati here once his punishment through. "It will make him happy," she insists. What she doesn't say is it will make him _stay. _Tati's presence will no longer give him reason to return to Midgard. His mother's strategy is abundantly clear; Frigga wishes to greet the girl in as a daughter, and as a hopeful wife to her youngest boy. Once it might have scandalized her that both of her boys wished to take Midgardian brides. Now she could only be relieved to have them home to stay, that mortal brides were a small price to pay. Loki also assumed that as Jotun, it would have been a relief to have him with a partner, rather than an expectation hanging over him. Besides - who but a mortal would take a Frost Giant?

He wonders if he did take a bride, not knowing his heritage, what would have been said when his children conceived arrived blue. That was, provided he could effectively procreate with an Asgardian. And what of Midgardian women?

Loki does not wish to marry Tati. To trap her to the home that was his gilded cage is far from kind. And, if married, they may never leave.

The Allfather is hesitant to fulfill his wife's request. There is no good in snatching up a young woman from her world. Especially one so associated with SHIELD. They'd had permission with Jane. If SHIELD was to be alerted…the friendship between dimension could grow strained. His elder boy urged it as well, agreeing with Frigga, but Odin knows Tatiana Deror has friends in high places. Violent friends. This must be handled with care. Loki prays Odin might see sense against his wife's pleads.

Frigga does not comprehend her younger son's cold nature on the subject of _"his woman."_ She visits his iron box, tearful.

"You love her, do you not?" She never waits for his answer - not that he can deliver one, anyways. "Then let us bring her to Asgard! Let yourself be happy, Loki. We want a whole family again."

She believes Tatiana will make him hale and whole again. That her human love will fix all. Like Thor was healed by Foster. As if Loki will be so distracted by her that he will give up all aspirations of a throne. That is all his mother seeks.

If she, Tatiana, is brought, they will surely be married at his parents' insistence. Thor has told them of his affections for the girl, their brief life together, all that he knows. The king, queen, and court _expect _a wedding. Thor and Jane receive no such expectations - Thor is, after all, heir and full-blooded Asgardian. They simply all wished to see the younger prince settled. Out of the way and taken care of.

This is not the life he wants for her, and certainly not the life he would have ever selected for himself. If Loki must remain locked away, galaxies apart, then so be it. But she does not deserve the same fate. Tati will loath court. She will hate the false smiles, the stiffness, the disrespect of snippy comments. There are so alike in that way.

Besides, he cannot imagine her in a stiff court costumes, covered in crystals or gold as his mother might appear. He can hardly imagine her in any kind of formalwear - the stiff life of court simply isn't suited to a girl who cannot part with her sweatpants.

No…she would not sever as a distraction for him. Only as another means to suffer.

"Why, Loki?" Frigga pleads. It is a rare day in which the mask has been allowed off. His jaw feels tight, the movement of bone and muscle unnatural. In the background, the Allfather stands, imposing and silent. Part of him pities them both. His mother is at least attempting to find him some kind of happiness.

His back is to her when he replies dully. "Because I love her, mother."

She does not understand. But he thinks Odin might.

**-XXX-**

Eventually he is released from his cage. The trickster goes back to what he'd always done before - reading, alone in his room, a guise for his schemes. He does not attend court functions. Frigga attempts, once, to convince him to attend some dinner or feast. But it is in vain; the prince wants nothing to do with the menial tasks of royal life. Odin says nothing.

For weeks he stays in his corner of the palace. His apartments feel colder than before, barren. He opens the drapes for the first time, and reads in bed. Loki takes up late-night tea drinking, then sleeps in. He doesn't seek the company of others, nor have they yet sought his. When he does leave his chambers and encounters another living soul, it is with great indifference, as though they are part of the interior décor. Whispers following him throughout the palace and its grounds. _"No matter."_

When he's feeling restless, he has taken to practicing his swordplay in the stable yard. As he is usually feeling restless in the evenings, this is not a problem - no one bothers him there.

He conjures himself opponents. People, shades, in the images of the Avengers, his brother, his brother's warriors, and, once, even _her. _

There is one interesting factor to these spars - he doesn't always win. He allows for the magic to expand and create a proper rival. For what fun is there is you're not challenged? Still, his rage makes him very good, if not sometimes sloppy in his execution. Loki loves the rush of the simulated fight. It releases his pent-up frustrations. Every time he manages to fell Steve Rogers or Thor, satisfaction rose to the hollow of his throat. And when he faced Tati, well….

She isn't as adept with the blade as he is, this shade. But determination ruled her every thrust and parry. His magic makes her still clumsy, only accidentally graceful, and, on occasion, foolhardy. Nine times out of ten, he will defeat her, ending their spar with his reader flat on her back, trembling on the ground, or cornered in the stable yard, chest heaving, pressed against the wall. In these moments he will reach out. Touch her face. And then, as easily as she was created, the shade will crumble, fade away from his sight.

It is not fair.

He still wears the Vinter's pendant. Apparently, SHIELD thought he would be little trouble in Asgard with it. With it, he can feel her, faintly, like a whisper of silk against skin in motion. But nothing more.

Slowly, he is integrated back into small court gatherings - feasts, mostly, perhaps a few other ceremonies. Though he stands in the shadows, without helmet, the bare minimum of armor, many eyes are drawn to him. They stare, most unabashed. He simply gazes back, a once-king and all-god away from his people. _"So this is what exile is…." _He does not have the energy to show them his hate, so he settles for a dull, bruised expression. Since returning, his appearance has suffered - dark circles around once-bright eyes, his hair longer than usual, a smattering of a beard, hollow chest. Some do not even recognize their prince. He cannot bring himself to care.

It is the warrior Sif who first seeks him out.

She has never been one for great caution - truly one of Thor's lot - and comes to him in the midst of one feast, drawing away from her friends to slip into his shadowy corner. He eyes her with distaste, but says nothing as she rests on a bench next to him.

"My lord," she says quietly.

Loki inclines his head. He and the warrior have always had an understanding, primarily based on respect. He cut off her hair, she sparred him to a bloody finish, and they now had a solid regard for one another.

"Enjoying this fine evening?"

He smiles, a faint bitterness in the lines of his mouth. "As much as one can."

"You have not graced us with your presence in so long."

He sighs. "I have been here, have I not Lady Sif?"

"Yes, my lord, but only in body." A half-smile. Tentative. Not a word one would typically associate with the lady-warrior Sif. "Your mind is elsewhere. We can all see it."

"Then let them see." His sneer is unkind, but his tone is low, broken.

Sif folds her hands. "I only point this out, my prince, for your parents' concern. And for your brother's."

"I am alive. They need not concern themselves more."

For a long moment, Sif is silent. They sit together, watching the bustle of warriors and courtiers, the story-telling, flirting, and general wooing occurring around them. It is a sight. While tonight's festivities are, perhaps, smaller than usual, the hall still roars with noise. They go unnoticed. Neither speak, but something hangs in the air between them. He isn't certain what - they've never been ones for talking, at least, not to each other. So, they sit. Silent. Waiting one another out. When Sif rises, her head bowed, the god pauses in his observations.

"You are an object of their concern," she states quietly. "Because no one would have figured you to be one to give up so very easily. Loki Odinson is not one to relinquish that which he wants. But maybe we were all wrong."

He is too stunned to answer for several seconds. Then, he is rising, ready to pin her, hissing. "You've no idea what I have resigned myself to. For what cause it is I…I have not given up."

"Oh?" She does not appear convinced. Arms crossed, the warrior leans against the nearest wall. "That is not how it appears to the rest of us."

"Because I want nothing more to do with that world, you accuse me of 'giving up?' What do you know of my suffering?"

Sif is unimpressed by his passionate outburst. "I know nothing. Only that you've not surrendered out of boredom of Midgard, but for regard of one particular Midgardian. Which is, forgive me my lord, rather bone-headed."

Had he anything to throw, he would've seen that her pretty forehead was marred with bruise or blood. But he is without cup (much unlike his brother), and he dare not use a speck of power in this hall - not with so many warriors milling about. So, the prince grits his teeth very prettily, a half-grimace-half-smile.

"My lady Sif, you speak out of turn."

She bows. "My lord. I only speak what is observed."

With that, she goes back to her fellows. She doesn't look back once.

**-XXX-**

That night, the shade is torn to bits. This time it flickers between Banner, the Widow, Fury, and Tatiana. All are bloodied by the end of their turn.

"What do you see of me?" he growls to Tati when she steps up, flexing her wrists and rolling her shoulders before she enters into a stance he's almost certain she does not truly know. Thoughtful, the shade observes him for a few moments. "I see many things."

"Oh? Then tell," he commands, thrusting forward.

She parries, though with little grace. "I see unhappiness. Despair. Winter-bones…you are tired, my lord - " The shades will always, always refer to him as their prince. "- and tensity. But, mostly, I see you."

The last sentence sounds like his reader, and in a defeated relief, the prince surges upon her again. The shade-Tatiana defends herself with a look of entire concentration. She cries out when the blade whacks her sides, slices across her hand, and slides over her knee cap. But she stands still, ducking and leaping to keep up with his most angry hand. Let it be known that human-form or shade or otherwise every incarnation of Deror would be as stubborn as a bear upon a hive. Her thick skin would not allow for standing down.

When he lands a long, whip-thin slice across one cheek, she cries out. Only then does he pause to see the damage.

Instantly, he is there, before her, fingers on the wound. The shade hisses with simulated pain. Before she can fade, he presses down upon her, brutally claiming her lips. The creature of magic responds correctly with a squeak. He crushes himself to her, trying desperately to taste her skin, memorize the magic flesh, inhale her warm, clean scent. It's always reminded him of childhood. Safety. Warmth and light and laughter. He loosens his grip to ghost her arms, and then lets her go, sparkling fragments fading in stale evening air.

He is outside, but he wants space. Air. Darkness.

The god flees to the gardens instead, sitting in the grove of poplar trees, breathing. The thick rows were often his hiding place as a boy. Loki relaxes, slight form sinking against one generous trunk. He can still taste – or thinks he can still taste - Tatiana on his skin. He wants her to seep into his every pore, but that is unlikely for the moment. So he curses himself, his brother, the SHIELD, the Avengers, Tati herself…until he quiets, tired.

"_I know nothing. Only that you've not surrendered out of boredom of Midgard, but for regard of one particular Midgardian…"_

Sif's words echo in his head. The god closes his eyes. She is right, she is right, she is entirely right. But even so, it does no one good. Tati is not his for the taking. Not anymore.

Not even if he could find his way out of this blasted place.

"_There are other ways out of Asgard."_

**-XXX-**

**Sif has become one of my favorite characters. And Sif/Loki are probably one of my favorite Marvel's pairing. She's so BA. *sigh* **

**Again, reviews would be lovely. **


	31. Always?

**Just a note, the one-shot I posted, oh, say, a month back, really ties into the last chapter. "Child of Mine," all from Frigga's POV. Check it!**

**Gracious, we are getting close to the end! **

**-XXX-**

I've never been good at losing. When I was in indoor soccer in the fifth grade, I developed a notorious (well, as notorious as a fifth grader can be) reputation for my temper against my own teammates when we approached the last part of the game and our score wasn't quite a winning one. I quickly found my anger did little. But it sure felt good to yell.

It's a tactic I've resorted to here.

Screaming into my pillow (_"His pillow.") _in the middle of the night. Throwing clothes and small objects. Breaking things, shredding paper. The violence, though childish, gives me satisfaction.

I pace the house _("His house.") _when the silence of my mind becomes unbearable, playing loud 80s pop. Things creep up from the corners, smoky shades voicing painful reminders. Sometimes, these voices are Loki's. Other times, Banner's, or even Joseph's. It is hard to bear, but at the chance of hearing Loki's voice, even his most menacing tones, I anticipate these moments.

Will it always be like this? Separation, constantly? Since he fell from the sky behind my house, we've been parted three times. And while I know his promise-_"I will return to you. For you."_-is genuine, I cannot help but think this pattern will be our lives until death or eternal loathing separates us. I do not know how time passes in Asgard in comparison to how it moves here. It may be years before he finds his way back. To wait forever might be impossible….

Yet anything else feels simply _wrong. _

As I sit in a coffee shop, alone, or browse the clearance section in a bookstore, when men smile at me, talk, or in any way indicate an interest, I find myself shutting down, turning suddenly into an exceptionally quiet person. Cold. Impersonal.

Will this be my life now? Waiting on the whims of a temperamental god? Always?

New York is now home - it became official after SHIELD claimed anywhere else could prove dangerous. I ignored them. The decision was more so a personal choice; staying would mean Loki knew where he could find me. Staying meant the scent of him - pine and rain and something clean - would linger on me. Staying means I don't have to face the places we first experienced each other. And it means I can slip away into the busy heart of the city, lose myself to the world, if only for a brief period of time. Screw SHIELD.

I returned home once to pack up clothes and books and my cat. The house was still mine, so I arranged for renters, with my friend Anita acting as a kind of landlord in my stead. The brownstone in New York was, according to the paperwork, paid for in full. All expenses, utilities and services, were paid out of an untouchable account. Loki, taking care of me even when I didn't want nor need him to. Had he foreseen this occurring, or do gods just not like filling out checks every month?

Aside from the loneliness, life here as been pretty nice. Win has acclimated to the house. He loves sitting on the windowsill to watch the pidgins. His preferred place of sleep is the guest bedroom I sometimes occupied when I took day naps. Overall, we've adapted well. There are still a few snags-I have yet to master the art of subway riding, the search for a decent green grocer's within a twelve-block radius isn't going so well, life without a car is increasingly difficult, and I'm slipping back into my habit of talking aloud to Win.

But we're adapting. And that's all that matters, in the long run.

**-XXX-**

About twenty high-pitched, yet hushed, voices fill the room. The scent of ink fills the warm air, saturated by the noise of rollers against sticky glass pallets, slick with colour. I move from table to table, guiding young arms through the motions of applying colour to linoleum sheets. The knives have been, thankfully, put away now. At this point, our biggest threat is inkstains. Each child (does twelve to fourteen still count for children?) has on an apron, but even so arms and cheeks already bear proof of our labors. My hands are a veritable rainbow.

I love my job. Both of them - acting as a consultant, researcher, and auction representative for my old gallery, for Charlene, and this new one of conducting kid's workshops in the various museums. While I've never been a kid-person (or a long-distance relationship-person for that matter, which is why my current business arrangement with Charlene surprises me for the sheer fact it works well for both of us), the cheery eagerness of young minds has softened me to them. Not enough to make me long for little ones…yet. I can appreciate them, though, in a way I never have before. They want to learn, even if they might never admit it. And, though I may never say it aloud, I enjoy teaching them. I am no artist, not by any means, but I can sculpt, or throw a pot, paint with watercolours, weave, print, draw…not always well, but I can.

This month's lesson has been over printmaking, so we've been _carefully _carving into our lino blocks. The prospect of making a real live print, the kind found in newspapers and magazines, is exciting to them. It is an infectious feeling.

"Marcus," I warn from across the room. "If I see you sling that roller one more time, I'm going to tell Miss Gina you need more quiet time. C'mon, buddy, you're getting other kids all paint-y."

This ser is one of my school groups. They're right down the street, so this visit is their weekly culture shot. Gina, an eagle-eyed redhead (who reminds me of another sharp young woman with flaming hair), is their devoted teacher. From the corner of the room where she is crouched next to Emily, who has her small hands pressed _hard _on the lino sheet, Gina smiles.

"Watch yourself, Marcus," she advises. "Do I need two sets of eyes on you?"

The boy looks sullenly between us before shaking his head. The teacher and I exchange an amused glance before turning back to the other students.

Thirty minutes later it's cleanup time. The kiddos swarm to the cubbies where their coats, hats, gloves and scarves wait. They scramble to tuck into their warm clothes – though it's March, it's still nippy out there.

While I sort prints onto the drying rack, Gina sidles up to me, grinning. She is one of the only friends I've managed to make so far since I've moved. Still connected to my old life, finding a new set is difficult. I've done what I can to detach from life _before. _Reminders of life from before monsters and super heroes and gods existed in my world. Little things, like coffee brands, house décor, and people's laughter. Severing connections can be hard, though. Especially when there isn't another brand of bread I like, any other rug I can put in my guest room, or anyone else to turn to.

Those who brought about this separation have little guilt, but there is effort to make it up to me in small ways. Bruce will meet up for the occasional beer, dragging along Hawk or Steve when he can. Pepper has been kind enough to invite me out to lunch or the occasional opera. Tony is Tony…he has few cares, but even I can feel the frost of awkward that claims every room we both inhabit. The Widow avoids (or simply ignores) me like the plague, as does her partner (when Bruce isn't encouraging him to go out with us), and the few times Thor has been in town, I have kept a wary distance.

He is very kind, welcoming, even. He makes a genuine effort to meet with me. Bruce is little help here-he and Thor get along swimmingly. They have an understanding; when Thor is on "Midgard," we go out for Chinese. Again, this is extremely awkward-I want _nothing _to do with the guy who snagged my housemate and dragged him back to the exact place Loki didn't want to be. It isn't his fault, exactly, but anything out of Asgard only serves as a brutal reminder of what was, and what might've been.

My ring winks up at me, reassurance.

"So," Gina begins as her ducklings scramble to put away ink canisters and wash their rollers. I watch as colour melt in the water, traveling down in swirls in the base of the sink. "I've been thinking…you've not had a date since you moved here."

Tripped up, my mind blanks out briefly. "Uh, no," I agreed.

"Well, I've met the most interesting guy…."

I cannot bring myself to cut her off. I listen as she describes this guy who is "so perfect for you it's not even cliché." He owns an antique and vintage wear store in Brooklyn. He spends his weekends at the local Humane Society, or as a Big Brother. His name is Harker, and would I be interested in a blind date? She would really love to set me up.

"Does Harker know he's the perfect guy for me?" I ask wryly.

"Well, not in so many words. But he would like to meet you."

Biting my lip, I do my best to appear mildly interested. "Um, that's so nice of you, Gina. Seriously."

"But?" she prompts, acknowledging where this is heading.

"I'm not really ready. Yet." I say in a rush. "I just got…uh, dumped-" Is that what it would be called? My sort-of boyfriend person gets virtually incarcerated in his light-years-away home planet, while still sort of intending to be captured? Does _"dumped" _sum that up? "-by someone I was really…well, we were serious. Moved-in serious. And I just don't feel…prepared."

Gina nods slowly, one hand moving to guide the shoulder of a child passing at a break-neck pace (for a twelve-year-old). "I hear you. You've gotta get back on that horse sometime, honey."

"I know. Just not quite yet." I straighten, giving her my hand. In a pleading voice, I say, "I promise you, within the next year I will go out with a guy. We will get dinner, drinks, maybe see a movie. The whole shebang. But I need a little more time."

Gina eyes me, convinced, but concerned. "This must have been some fellow for you to be cold turkey for…how long has it been?"

"A while," I assure her. "But don't you worry about it. I mean, it's New York. People find each other every day."

"Yeah!" She brightens. Turning to the kids, she instructs them to line up outside. A chorus of _"Goodbye Ms. Deror!" _I wave them out, then go back to Gina as she scoops up her teacher-tote.

"Thank you. Sincerely, thanks. You're a good friend."

She smiles. "It's like you said. People find each other every day here. It's a city of love stories. You'll have yours. I know it. You're too nice a girl. I'm surprised there aren't already five guys in love with you, circling right now!"

**-XXX-**

I catch lunch with Bruce the next day. He's alone this time, dressed in khakis and a white button-down. He looks tired, as always, frazzled, but happy enough. Every time I see this mild-mannered man, I wonder how it is he is alone in his life. As far as I know, Tony and I are the only two people he regularly socializes with, not including Pepper and a few SHIELD squints-for-hire that he has working under him.

Bruce has an impressive new lab in Stark Tower. Over breadbowls, he describes in stunning detail all of his new toys, all the bells and whistles. His eyes glow like a kid's at Christmas. Tony has done well - he's effectively bought Banner's undying respect and affection. I don't understand much - it's like listening to a French person speaking very fast when I've only taken two years of high school_ Francais - _but I nod and smile, enjoying his pleasure. Bruce is so rarely happy.

It's difficult for me to believe this guy is a big green fighting machine. Especially during moments like this.

"Are you living in the Tower now?"

"Sometimes," Bruce admits. "But sometimes I need distance. Work and home mixing too much. I've got a small apartment a couple of blocks away. And a room in the Tower. You know, Tony would put you up if you wanted…I know living in a place filled with bad memories can be…hard."

He is affectionate in his tone, warm in his gaze.

I blink. "I don't have any bad memories there."

Embarrassed, Bruce ducks his head.

I quickly change the subject, smiling brightly. We discuss matters of the city life – something entirely new to me, not so much to Bruce – and I let him explain subway etiquette to me, then we swap stories of Central Park. He promises next week we'll go by SoHo, so I can sort out the space of the city in my mind, and also to check out a few of the galleries. I've already been to most of the boroughs (a new concept to me, a city within a city). Bruce asks if I've seen the library, then goes on to rave about its architectural beauty.

The conversation eventually turns to me. Not something I advocated, but he is insistent. I tell him about Winchester, how he's adapting to city life. While most people would be turned off by my animated description of my cat's behavior, Bruce listens with interest. I altogether avoid discussion outside of superficial issues. We move onto my job, and I tell him about the kindergarteners I'm doing pottery with Monday. He laughs at the appropriate places.

When the meal is finished, we walk out to stand on the frozen sidewalk. I wind my cable-knit cranberry-coloured scarf 'round my neck, then fiddle with my creamy felt cap, fingers moving to the tassels of my scarf again as Bruce invites me to some science-y SHIELD banquet tomorrow night. I accept after some hesitation, remembering Gina's words about getting back on the horse. Besides, my acceptance pleases Bruce immensely, someone I sense could use some more pleasing things in his life. He smiles his shy half-smile, lips together, and we part ways. I ignore the ever-tepid murmurs that follow me home. Apathetic for the moment toward my own sorrow, I shrug against the chill, allowing my better half to internally narrate what I might wear to the formal banquet.

**-XXX-**

**Have you missed Win? I have! In real life too, it's nice to be home to see him. He's getting fixed tomorrow, poor baby!**

**Thanks for the support! Reviews would be lovely...just saying!**


	32. Spoilt

**The only thing I have left to write is the epilogue...and I've developed a writer's block. Ug. I'll get it...sometime. I very much want to get this done before school begins (freshmen years of college, so, so nervous!). The only thing preventing that is my writer's block, many friends suddenly deciding since I'm moving in 14 days they want to chill with me, and Downton Abbey. **

**Thank you all for the support! The reviews and follows and favorites have kept my inbox full. Thank you so much. And please, don't hesitate to ask questions, critique, etc. **

**-XXXX-**

I end up selecting a champagne-coloured number with a black lace overlay at the waist. It's got triangular flat straps, a sweet-heart neckline, and pairs nicely with the velvet-lined wrap I usually took to the opera, and my stiletto pumps. Since being relocated to the Big Apple, my wardrobe has moved to a new, far more expensive, plane. I cannot say I mind in the least.

Bruce, in a charcoal sports coat and slacks, wearing a dusky purple shirt that nicely sets off his darken tones, spends the evening with me on his arm, appearing vaguely amused with his surroundings, whispering in my ear as the greats of SHIELD's sciences pass. There is the man who fused elements to make a new kind of metal, the woman who has made massive breaks in curing AIDs, then the fellow who has a dripping sort of nose who spends much of his time and money on radium, the astrophysicist in charge of the Asgardian communications and blackhole exploration (partner, he murmurs, to the Jane Foster). We pass a stout Asian woman with iron hair who is chatting with a sallow-faced gentleman. Bruce says they're nuclear physicists, the people who are still cleaning up the radiation in Japan. One mustashed red-head with flaming cheeks greets Dr Banner warmly, then moves to the bar. He, my partner whispers, single-handedly built an energy plant in the Ukraine that has yet to be unveiled, but rivals Stark Tower on clean energy production. According to Bruce, he is not a person Tony particularly admires.

Most people pass us by – even though this is the science community, people who understand and sympathize with Bruce's condition, they still give him a rather wide berth. Tony, the only other person who might see fit to hang around us, is still in Dubi for the week at some conference for clean energy architects. Pepper was planning on attending in his stead, but was held up by a small crisis in the desert – her boyfriend was offending one too many local sheiks.

My date is one hundred per cent gentleman. He fetches me drinks, pulls out chairs, opens doors, provides me with polite and charmingly shy conversation. While the buzz around the table in regards to the discovery of a new breed of plankton and mircobots is dull, I listen with half an ear as Bruce puts in his two cents. His opinion is regarded well enough.

It's not the most fun I have ever had, but the experience proves pleasant enough. And Bruce seems glad to have me here.

The speeches are even worse than the tabletalk, but I endure them with something like a smile. Beside me, the doctor shifts uncomfortably when his name is announced and applause rings throughout the room. With a slight shake of the head, I ask him when he sits why he did not tell me he was receiving an award.

He shrugs. "It's no big deal. I mean," he amends quickly. "An honor. But nothing of fawn over."

"Bruce," I say, a little playful, but more so scolding softly. "It's kinda a big deal. Congratulations. First year for SHIELD and you're already getting recognition."

"Well," he replies shyly. "It's probably just the standard."

Convincing him how great he is can be a task. The scientist ducks his head, eyes on the table.

For that moment, in Bruce's shyness and sweet nature, in his display of downplaying his achievements, I am struck: opposites. Day and night. Simply put, this man is nothing like Loki. My breath slows with the thought, and I choke a little in the back of my throat. At Bruce's look, though, I force another sweet smile, pride blossoming on my lips.

Yet my mind howls. Of course. Bruce, light where Loki has a dark edge. Compassionate where my god would sneer or sulk. A softer soul, where the other's is hardened. Overcoming, when my love uses his loathing to stem his fury, to build his motivations for revenge. A flame, consuming against Bruce's solid storm. The difference has never been more clear.

I feel myself swallow back bile at the thought. I _like_ Bruce. I have nothing against him in the least; he's always been kind to me. But even so – I cannot use him to placate my loneliness. That just isn't fair. Not fair to me, and certainly not fair to him.

Perhaps someday in the future….

We sit through the rest of the meal in companionable silence, listening to the voices of others around us. Bruce looks to me, raising his eye brows when we both hear someone say something unintentionally funny. As the night wears on (and therefore the booze consumption as well), I find myself giggling more and more (though that isn't directly an effect of the alcohol on me – I've sipped the untainted lemonade all night), and Bruce smile growing.

There is another round of speeches. For the life of me, I can't understand why these were not placed at the start of the dinner, pre-booze, for while the audience consists of responsible members of the science community, even they cannot pay attention while completely hammered. And some of them totally are. Besides that, a lot of people have to go to the bathroom now. Such as myself.

In the middle of a dreary oration regarding carbon half-life, or something like that, I lean over to Bruce.

"Listen, I am really sorry, but I've got to make an exit for the ladies room. Be right back, okay?"

Bruce, whose eyes have been glued to this German guy, allows his gaze to flicker over brief. "Yeah. I'll be right here."

This is totally Bruce's football.

I stand, smoothing out the bodice and skit of my dress before wading through the tables to exit the ballroom. Once out, I wander the length of carpeted hall and crystal wall sconces before I find the tell-tale plastic sign, Braille included at the bottom. I slip inside, relieved. Then, disappointed because there is a beastly line. About eight women stand, each wearing an expression of indifference, annoyance, or desperation. I park myself in the back to wait. All of these women appear to know one another – wives of SHIELD scientists, or scientists themselves. I am the odd duck out. Worrying at the beading on my clutch, I listen to the chit-chat. The ladies are discussing their husband's work.

"Henry was so busy today, I was scared we weren't going to make it. They had another one of those storms near Maine," says one frosted blond. "And I'd already gotten my pedi, and had the dress pressed, besides the babysitter would probably quit then and there if I cancelled on her again."

Her mirror-mate interrupts the application of a buttery coral lipstick, flipping her long curtain of dark hair. "Was it one of those big cyclones that was hitting the Southwest plains last year? The kind Foster has been studying? Juan says since she's been gone Henry has been such a help to the department. Erik only has good things to say about him."

The name Foster strike me. Giant storms in the Southwest sounds right up her alley. I've heard the name dropped by Bruce, Thor, and even Loki. She was the one who found Thor in the middle of that tornado thing in New Mexico. The Rosen-Whatever Bridge. The line shifts forward, and I feel my heart climb into my throat. The women keep talking, but I am too absorbed in my own thought to properly listen, and steady myself against the tiled wall. Bridge. The Bifrost…it was that thing Loki described, a rainbow-bridge that could take the people of Asgard anywhere – including earth. And from the way I'd heard it described, it came in the form of a huge tornado. Just like in New Mexico. And now, apparently, Maine.

Thor?

"_But no,"_ I think, frowning. The line moves up again. I trail behind the women, my mind lost. _"That can't be Thor. He always comes through closer to New York. On the ocean, maybe, or in Jersey."_

So who would be coming through Maine?

My treacherous mind whispers things forbidden to me. _"Loki Laufeyson?"_

I scold myself. Not Loki. "_Fool._"

"They sent an entire SHIELD field-agent team up there," murmurs the dark-haired one, using one of those perfume-rollers on her tanner wrist. "Twenty men, Juan says, and the locals were pushed off the land. Even our scientists were allowed in only after the area had been cleared."

"Odd," says the blond, frowning. "That's not protocol –"

With that, I bolt.

Behind me, the bathroom door swings on its hinges, and I can hear the quiet uproar of women wonder just what the hell happened. I don't look back.

Bruce is still at our table, still engrossed in the German guy's speech. I nearly collide with the chair when I fly in to sit beside him. He blinks once, twice, looking down owlish at me. Confusion rises in his gaze. "Tati? You look hot – red cheeks, I mean," he revises quickly. "Like you've been running."

"Well," I say, breathless. "I kinda have been. A little, I mean. Listen, Bruce, I've gotta run. It's been great, really, I loved this, and seeing you and – and – something came up."

Dr Banner blinks again. Mildly surprised, he begins to rise. "Okay. Um, I'll go get our coats, then we can hail a cab –"

"No!" I say loudly. Several people look up, some of them glaring. I lower my voice, taking his hand and tugging him back down to his chair, explaining lowly, "You stay. This means a lot to you, and I'm sure it'll look bad if you go early. Please stay. You're clearly enjoying this –" I gesture to the German, still rambling. "—right? Besides, I am a big girl. I can call up a cab."

"Are you sure?" His dark brow furrow. "I feel bad, Tati, leaving you to get home by yourself. You're, what, fifty blocks away?"

I grin. "More like seventeen, but who's counting? I'll be fine, Bruce. Thank you so much for inviting me."

This pleases him. "At least let me walk you out."

I comply to this, then let him kiss me sweetly on the cheek before he disappears back into the elevator. Once I know I am out of sight – pesky glass elevator tubes are a common hindrance in nicer Manhattan hotels – I dart outside. The yellow cabs are aplenty, and in their abundance I waste little time hailing one down. The guy has a pretty strong Israeli dialect. It takes several tries before I fully understand him I tell him as quickly as I can my street address on the Upper West Side. In twenty minutes (thick traffic for this time of night) we're before my brownstone. I escape into the night, shoving the guy a twenty (or maybe two, I don't really check) before running up the step – in heels, no less – to dig around my clutch for the keys, then fling the door open, flying inside, to be greeted by –

Silence.

I stand in the darken foyer for several seconds, staring straight into the parlor. My mind had told me, sworn up and down, that I would return to a smirking Asgardian God sitting in his usual rose-coloured armchair, crystal stout glass of scotch (or maybe mead, or wine, or something boozy) resting in his open palm, disinterested gaze on the window until my return. He would be wearing his armor, and bearing his sword. He would smirk at my opened-mouth gaze, then rise slowly to sweep me into an embrace. Then berate me for finally installing a TV, moving in the cat, and putting up my O'Keeffe prints in place of his battle-scenes. And in turn, I'd smack him for leaving me alone for so long, then show him the glories of Netflix.

Yet, this is merely what my mind dared to dream. Not actuality. Not by a longshot.

There is a twitch in the darkness, on the couch. The yellow eyes of Win appear, blinking. He slinks off of the furniture to weave between my legs, curling around my ankles. My bare skin keenly feels the soft fur. I stoop to scratch him behind the ears, the curse as the dress impairs this. Winchester cries loudly in displeasure. Without a second though I simply plop down on the floor beside him, allowing the cat to sit in the lap of my $300 designer dress. And then and there, scratching my spoiled cat behind the ears in the middle of my living room, I burst into tears.

**-XXX-**

**If you're a Captain America or Darcy Lewis fan I've got a short chaptered fictlet that I'm just about to wrap up. It's a little more wry that this piece, way shorter, just something sweet and simple. Checkit!**

**Comments, critiques, questions, concerns, I take 'em all. Just type in the nifty little box below. Your words fuel my words!**


	33. Blessing

**Oh, my heart! It breaks!**

**Sorry for the bit o' a wait - between last-minute visits with friends and family and otherwise prepping for The Big Move (for those of you who haven't heard I'm just a few days away from entering my freshmen year of college), things have been hectic. **

**Two more chapters! And I think you might like this one...**

**-XXX-**

The bustle of paper and high-pitched children's voices greets me Monday morning. Twenty-five four-to-six-year-olds pack in a punch far greater than espresso. I am scrambling all morning from knee-high table-to-table, stooping to examine the white "clay" (flour, salt, and water, don't sue me – the real stuff is expensive, and they're five) forms that are appearing before them. Tiny hands create lumpy figures. It's invigorating to see young minds at work and play, and even though my room is a mess twenty minutes in, I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Miss Tati, Miss Tati," one tot cries down the aisle where I'm currently squatting to watch one little fellow sculpt a beetle. I look up to see Hannah bouncing wildly, her golden curls flying in time with the lilac ribbons tied at the base of each pigtail. "Look see!"

She shoves her ladybug in my direction. The class is currently studying bugs, so the teacher suggested I encourage the kiddos to make their favourite insects or arachnids. The oval stares up at me. I appropriately "ooh" and "aah" over Hannah's masterpiece. She beams. "See what Lin-Ju made!"

Hannah beckons to her companion, a smaller girl of Asian descent with wide, dark eyes, and a black braid down her back. Lin-Ju shyly offers forth a butterfly. I marvel (with a little more sincerity this time) at the delicate wings. Lin smiles softly at my praises.

Naturally, then Billy and KJ and Theo and D'angelo and Alex and Leah and Cris and Justin and Mara and Philip and Cole and Tessa have to show me their pieces, too. So I've got a laughing chaos of tiny voices, and I am forced to examine worms, spiders, beetles, flies, caterpillars, dragonflies, and mosquitoes. None of them are painted – that's next week's assignment. They're all abuzz, telling each other all of the colours they're going to paint their bugs. With honest pleasure budding in my chest - _"Just what I needed after this weekend." – _I pat a few of them on the head or shoulders, then sweep across the room to make sure everyone is done. Lance, one of my more troublesome boys, sits at the corner of his art table, still putting the finishing touches on his massive centipede. His spiky black hair makes him look like a little mad scientist. Actually, he reminds me a little of Tony.

"Hey buddy. Nice bug. Can you tell me what kind it is?"

He glances up, bright little eyes flashing as he tilts his head. "You can't tell?"

"I am not very well-versed in my bugs," I tell him gravely.

"It's a centapeed," Lance explains seriously. "He's got a bajillion legs."

"Oh, my," I say. "That's not quite a bajillion, though."

"Well, I didn't have 'nough clay," says the boy, a little huffy. "Why I asked you for more."

I briefly remember one high-pitched little voice badgering me for more of the white stuff.

"Sorry hon, but I had to make sure everyone had an equal amount. It still has a lot of legs, thought." And it certainly does – approximately thirty, which is probably why he was behind the others in construction. "But it looks really cool either way. Your friends are going to be impressed."

"I know!"

"Haha, right," I say, rising. "Why don't you go put it in the window to dry, then next week we'll paint it, okay?"

"Uh-huh," the little fellow agrees happily.

I direct the others to follow suit, then line up just like ducklings for their teacher, who would be very, very impressed if they kept as quiet as owls. Comparing them to animals, I'd found, could be quite effective. The only thing is, I'm running out of quiet creatures. Almost everything out there makes a sound, and even the ones I would normally pass out are challenged by a five-year-old's vast knowledge (which can probably be attributed to excessive Discovery Channel watching). Today my little ducklings rush to be line leader, then there is a brief tussle between Lance and Alex before I settle it, recalling (falsely) that Lance was line leader last week. They accept this. And then, mercifully, their teacher arrives to escort them back.

The next half-hour is spent cleaning up the room. While significantly less messy than paint or ink, clay, or even fake clay, has a residue all its own. With a sigh, I clock out. The little ones were my last crew of the day. I take a long time putting on my jacket, hat, gloves, and winding my scarf 'round my neck, then trail out the hallways into the bright mid-afternoon light. It's brighter than usual, actually, since there was a faint dusting of snow last night. Like powdered sugar on gingerbread houses, it has accumulated on the awnings, roofs, window sill, railing, and the gutters.

Once outside, I watch my breath frost in the chilled air. New York winters, I've found, are very different from the kind I usually experience. Colder. Crisper.

I walk about a block before deciding it is simply too cold to go much further. I step to the curb, lifting my hand to hail a passing cab. It readily stops, but just as I am reaching for the door handle, another's hand, encased in a very expensive black leather glove, flashes forward to grip the painted metal. Shock rises in me as a tall, slim guy passes, back to me, to open the door and make to slip inside.

"Hey!" I cry as I grab the guy's shoulder.

Cab stealing is a relatively common, especially among the businessmen, stockbroker and lawyer set, but I've never had it happen to me before, and I'm a little ticked. Contrary to the general assumption New Yorkers aren't the jackasses everyone claims them to be, but as in every community, there are a few. New Yorkers are just busy and wary, like normal people. But this isn't a small town. People shouldn't expect the natives to go out of their way to privately escort them about the city.

So when this guy cuts me off, I'm pissed. But I'm not scared. I mean, we're in public. What could he do?

He spins on his heels (which are bearing very, very expensive, very nice black loafers polished to perfection) to face me. The first thing I notice is the off-white diamond-print scarf wound 'round his neck and pulled up to cover his mouth. The second is his eyes – a pair of merrily alighted emerald irises, clearly amused with my endeavors to prevent him from stealing my cab.

_"Loki," _I breathe. It's more of a breath than a title or sound. A simple statement. As easy as inhaling. Which I do, once I'm crushed to his chest.

Backing up a little, I demand, "What the hell?"

He doesn't exactly answer, though, instead choosing to seal my lips with his own hungrily. I do not protest in the least. But the cabbie does.

"You kids have anything better to do than mack out in the street?" he bellows in a thick Bronx accent. "Get in here or go away!"

Once in the back seat, I pull the smirking god to me once again. His lips move against mine, slow and teasing before we're interrupted again. The cabbie is staring with raised brows.

"Sorry for the disturbance, but where exactly am I taking you two lovebirds?"

I croak out the Upper West Side address, then we return to our unmasked make out session in the backseat, with little regard to the poor cab driver. Loki nuzzles me without a sound, nosing my collar bone and kissing my neck. It's not his standard practice, but again, I'm not complaining. We continue with the gross, lovey behavior until the driver stops with a screech in beside the curb. Loki tosses him a few bills (which have spontaneous appeared in his fist, but no one comments, especially seeing as the poor guy just wants these two sickos out of his car). I mumble an unintelligible thanks, and the fellow does not linger.

Without a word, I am dragged up the steps and all but flung into the foyer, where I am then savagely pressed against the door, Loki's very figure conducting a siege against me. In response, I keen under his hands, my hands fisting in his newly-shorn locks. Clever fingers work at the hemline of my blouse, then creep across my skin. The cool touch sends shivers through me. I stretch. He finally speaks, murmuring my name lowly, then in a language I don't understand. Curling into him, I kiss the god fully on the mouth.

"Tati," he murmurs again.

"Where the hell did you come from?" I wonder aloud in a whisper.

He winces. "That exactly. Hel."

"Loki…."

"No," he insists, lips against mine again, briefly. "Utter misery. It is no longer my home, Tatiana. And the scenario was only made worse by my punishment – that fitting for a child. Not a man. And not befitting my crimes. A disgrace."

"You want to be burned at the stake?"

He makes an impatient noise. "I would rather take a burning than being imprisoned as a tot in his nursery."

"Well, you cannot expect them to not treat you as such," I say, watching his lips quirk. "You have the maturity of one about five years old. And I would know. I've spent all day with children."

As if to prove my point, he rolls his eyes. And then he decidedly proves the opposite, claiming my lips again. With another massive smirk, Loki pulls me from the door, scooping me up as though it were effortless (which it cannot be, I know what the scale says), then trekking up the stairs. After he closes the door to corner me – blocking Win, who has yet to realize we're home – on the bed, besieging me against the headboard. But I call pause.

"Did SHIELD clear this?" I gasp.

With a groan, Loki drops his lips from my throat. Affectionately, I run my fingers through his hair. It is, as I said, shorter, striking his jawline, and has been pushed back, smoothed to the nape of his neck. I quite like it. It's not quite the length to be tied back with, but perfect from mussy up.

Frustrated, he looks up at me with narrowed eyes. "No. They have not. But the King of Asgard and his Queen have."

"Oh." I stare openly. Loki's wide eyes lock with mine, trying to discern my reaction.

"You are…disappointed?" he asks delicately.

I shake my head quickly. "Gods, no! I'm just…." I drift off sheepishly. "Worried. You know."

"You will not need to fear." He bares his teeth, feral glint in his gaze. I abruptly feel the need to pull away, but with my back against the wood I'm rather restricted. So I settle for looking just past his shoulder. "This has the Allfather's blessing. We're safe."

This does little to reassure me – I mean, the Allfather hasn't been any friend to me – but I sag slightly at his words. Gentle fingers trace my cheek. My gaze is drawn back. Those deep green orbs are icily bright. We are silent. Loki, usually so cautious and calculating, is being more of a "shoot-now-ask-later" kind of god for the moment, and it's disturbing me.

"What –"

"I've been gone for months, my dear half-wit," he says pointedly. "Must we….?"

No. No we mustn't.

**-XXX-**

**I have missed Loki dearly. **

**So...whatcha think? Reviews, comments, questions, concerns, critiques, I take 'em all! **


	34. Arrangement

**Wow, um...virtually no response to that last one...okay...uh...I know we're really that busy going-back-to-school point in the year, but the lack of response has been really disheartening considering what I usually get with this story. So...yeah...**

**This is the last chapter before the epilogue, which may be a long time coming. I'm maybe two sentences in. Maybe. For the moment I have a Thor piece and another Avengers oneshot in the works, featuring Jane Foster, Hawkeye and Black Widow respectively. There isn't any more Loki directly in the future, but that may change. **

**-XXX-**

"Any child we conceive may come out blue," he tells her one night.

From where she's settled into the pillow, Tati cracks an eye. "Oh?" she asks easily. "Did you curse your privates?"

Loki snorts, shaking his head and looking down, eyes on the bedsheets. For the first time in a long time, she is privy to his uncertainty. Loki traces veins from her upturned arm, the faint violet lines showing up easily against the pale insides of her wrists. A little more awake (he considers this can be attributed to his admission), Tati watches him with half-lidded eyes.

"What makes you think I'll want children?" she inquires, brushing off his lack of an answer. She is teasing, he knows it. The slight fire in her eyes confirms this, the quirk of her lips. She is getting so good at that… _"My influences,"_ he acknowledges wryly. Tati continues. "I don't know about you as the fatherly type, Laufeyson. Especially considering your track record of…guardianship."

With a growl, he snags up her wrists to flip the young woman on to him. They roll briefly on the mattress, Tati laughing wildly until they pause. She's claimed top, and folds her hands on his chest, making a neat pillow for her chin. Her feet stretch and she nudges the tops of his toes. To visibly acknowledge his bare feet still delights her – he had apparently never walked around barefooted before. He finds her to be a very silly creature – yet it is still amusing to please her in such simple ways.

She quiets, contemplating as she rests against his chest.

"Do you…" she strays off slightly before continuing. "Do you want that at some point? A family? Baby, dog, picket fence?"

"I do not see why a fence is particularly necessary."

Tatiana blinks up at him. The god can practically taste her apprehension. He cannot quite believe they are conducting this topic of discussion. It is perfectly natural, yes, to assume that they will remain as they are now for a good long time. To the god's surprise, his reader has yet to insist on any ceremony, and nor has she brought up the thought of formalizing their situation. Even his brother's precious Jane had spoke of a set of vows – to which his brother had eagerly responded.

That is the differences, he supposes, one he does not mind. Tatiana does not require jewelry or gilded words to assure her of their unacknowledged bond – he'd fought long and hard in his pursuit back to her; he would stay.

_"No formal arrangement, yet she allows herself to entertain the idea of off-spring." _

He has been silent for some time, and knows she must be worrying.

"I do not know." This is a partial truth – if anything, he would only ever want children for the sake of her, as well as to further his bloodline, and perhaps just to see how a babe might turn out. As for any desires to be a father, he has none. Loki feels no urge to procreate. "But I would not be closed to the thought."

Tatiana accepts this. Something still troubles her, regardless. "And, why would these hypothetical children be blue?"

Loki hesitates before turning inwards to focus his energies. Ice floods his veins, channeling every nerve. It is like being thrust into a body of water in the midst of a snowstorm. Painful, by a slight, a little prickly. Not particular comfortable, slipping into his other skin.

When he opens his eyes, bloody orbs that they are, he hears Tatiana's sharp intake of air. Loki does not look to her. He lifts one hand to see the slate-coloured flesh. Dark unfamiliar and certainly not his. And yet….As he turns his attention back to Tati, he notes her stiffened form against him; wary body language. She examines him fully, shrinking up, minimizing her body space. Shying away.

It frustrates him. He will not have her afraid. One hand rises to her hair, soothing as he would any creature on edge. Wary, just as wary as she is portraying, Loki watches her slow scan of his new skin.

She finally reaches out to touch, insurance that he is tangible. Real – not an illusion of a trickster.

"It is truly my skin," he says quietly. Tati jolts, reverie broken.

"Hard to be sure with a trickster god," she murmurs. "As Bruce says, you're about as insane as a bag of cats."

"I'm flattered."

She hits him, watching in fascination as his skin goes from slate to indigo with a rush of blood. The slight awe, slight fearfulness returns.

"Are you all like this?"

"Asgardians?"

She nods, eyes flickering up to meet his sanguine gaze.

"No," he says flatly. "They're not. I am an unusual circumstance." The god pauses. "Jotun. I am of the Frost Giants. They all appear as I do."

"Then why-"

Weary, he cuts her off. "It is a long tale for a later time."

They have time – all the time in the world – but she says nothing, merely lets her eyes flash. They lay together in silence, Tati running warm hands along his bare arms and chest. Wonderment rules her expressive face.

"What do you think of my monstrous visage?" he asks wryly. Tati's eyes grow wide. He doesn't let her protest. "Is it not…fearful? Don't fret my dear, I promise, I can turn back."

"You're not a –"

He shakes his head, hissing slightly. "Do not attempt to sway me of what I know. I am the nightmare, the beast beneath your bed."

"The beast in my bed," she points out, pressing her chin into his sternum. His hands go to wrap around her wrists, but they do not attempt to prevent her caress against his chest and shoulders. "You're simply different, Loki. Not particularly beastly by any means."

"I am a horror."

"You're being a drama queen."

The glare Tatiana receives is fearsome indeed, possibly intensified by his current appearance. The bloody gaze didn't help. She swallows back, though, and pushes closer, clearly ignoring the chill of his slate skin.

Then, a look of nervous worry overtakes her and she pauses in her motions.

"Loki…" Tati bites her lip. "Can we even –" She took a steadying breath, clasping her eyes brightly. When they opened, she moved to touch his cheek, asking in a low whisper, "Would this…us.. work together when it comes to conception? I mean, we're different species. Is it possible?"

"Yes."

His reply is definite. "And if not…then it shall be. I will make it an impossibility reality."

The response is unsurprising to her. Thoughtful, Tati nods. "Would that be safe?"

"Of course."

This is a lie – he has no idea if magical interference with the biology of procreation is dangerous task. But he very much wants to give her hope.

She settles against him, tracing patterns in the blue-grey flesh. His skin, now so cold, relishes the warm fingertips, and the _warm _form against him. The skin that meets his is sweet relief from treacherous chill. Watching Tatiana stroke the lines of his throat, face masked in shadow, the god is forced to wonder over what she thinks on.

Softly inquiring, Loki lifts a hand to brush back a few locks, unveiling her face. "What is it you think?" He doesn't add _"of my skin." _But she seems to comprehend his meaning.

"Does it matter?" she asks, not unhappily.

"As it cannot be altered…no, it does not. But I would still like to know."

Tati sighs. "I won't say it doesn't disturb me a little, your second skin. And it must bother you, right?" she peers at him, a sadness in her inquiry. "Else you'd feel…comfortable."

"Does it scare you?"

"No," she whispers. "Only intrigues."

**-XXX-**

She began to ask him to change. Sporadically. And, most times, he would comply. Closing his eyes to pull upon the threads of power, he felt the cold submerge beneath his skin, filling him, stealing his breath. When he opened his sanguine eyes again, she would be watching, always in a quiet awe. Her fingers would skirt the ridges and crests, and for a moment Tati would be silent. And then, as naturally as breathing, she would return to whatever had occupied them before. As though nothing had altered.

Sometimes, he can believe it hasn't.

There is an effort being made. He can see that. She is sensitive to his cool skin now, his touch causing her to openly shiver more so than ever before. Her lips may quirk, or purse, in some repression of emotion or expression. He cannot be entirely sure of what she is thinking – if there is fear, disgust in those warm depths of her eyes – and he thinks perhaps he would rather not know. But there is trying. It counts.

"You don't have to like it," he tells her bluntly one evening as they stand in the kitchen. Tati's putting away the dinner plates from the dishwasher, and she straightens with his words, expression of surprise blooming on her features. He has just filled her request of altering. Now, he leans against the counter, arms crossed. The dark blue-grey looks even darker against the white of his shirt.

"No," she agrees. "But you need to."

His grip tightens on his forearms, gaze flickering up from the floor to meet Tati's icily. She ignores him, continuing in her motion of stacking plates.

"And if me accepting it is what it takes for you to accept yourself…I'll deal." Her eyes meet his sharply. "I'll always deal."

This displeases him. "You do not need to pity me."

She shakes her head, lips quirking. "It's not pity. It is a simple equation of mental health. You're at a disadvantage, you see, if you don't accept this part of yourself."

Loki scowls. Tati, in return, shrugs.

"That's just my perspective."

He tells her it's not any sort of disadvantage. Assure he can very well look at himself, in any form, and that she need not worry for him, nor pity him, nor "deal" for him. With this, her lips purse. But she nods, closing her eyes as he crossed to her, taking the plates from her hands to set them upon the counter, pressing his forehead to hers. His lips hover just above her own. She is so different to him when he is in the form. Cautious. Gentle. She touches him with reverence. Perhaps she's taking a cue from him. The god presses closer. Loki can feel her murmur softly, first his name, then -

"Jotun." She blinks up at him. "It sounds...powerful."

Loki simply sighs.

**-XXX-**

Later, she'll ask questions about the Frost Giants. He'll tell her about Jotunheim, about Nal and Laufey. Loki explains the upraised markings on his blue flesh. He speaks of learning magic. Of days spent learning the art of battle, fighting. He'll recount the Allfather's glorious battles, the defeat of Loki's once-people, and how he was, not matter which way it was spun, a prince of two peoples. Tati will grin with this, and tell him her childhood fantasy of marrying a prince is coming true, thankyouverymuch. And he will laugh, loud and merrily.

"Not much a prince anymore," he says, his arms wide, smile coming naturally and easily as daylight. Yet, they still see it pains him to admit this. "Nor a kingdom. I've no kingdom to rule, Tatiana Deror."

He had been promised, long ago, a kingdom. But Tati doesn't seem to care. From where she is perched in the threshold of the master bath, brushing out her hair, her expression doesn't hold the gravity of his claim.

"Well, we can't have it all, can we?" she says vaguely. "Princes and whatnot…."

The prince in question rolls his eyes heavily. "I am supposed to be king, Tati. I was bred for a higher purpose than…this."

She doesn't let him pity himself, though, and moves to the bed. "I'm perfectly happy without a kingdom. I mean, unless it was something like Monaco – which you should _not_ invaded, just so we're clear – for anything much bigger than this –" here she gestures out, as if to indicate the pair of them and the house. "—would probably be beyond our reach."

"I have lead armies—" the god protests. Tati presses a single finger to his lips.

"And I'm sure you did a marvelous job of that." He didn't, and they both knew it. "But, for the moment, let's be a little more focused on getting through the next year without our asses being dragged back to Asgard, shall we?"

**-XXX-**

**Thank you for sharing this journey with me. I truly enjoyed the entire process, all of the feedback and support, and the experience. Look out for an epilogue! **

**~D**


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